


Free Fall

by arabis



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Captivity, Dominance, Dubious Consent, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, Forced Bonding, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mating Bond, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Touching, Prostate Massage, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sentinel/Guide, Sentinel/Guide Bonding, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:54:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 58,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23282107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arabis/pseuds/arabis
Summary: In a world where Sentinels and Guides are known, all Guides must register with the government upon manifesting their abilities. When a Guide fails to do so, the government dispatches specialized Sentinels called Guidehunters to track down and capture them.Clint Barton manifested as a guide when he was nine years old, and he has been on the run ever since. After one too many close calls, he runs out of luck in a little town outside of Indianapolis. Although the Tower's Sentinels have tracked him down, Clint won't make things easy for them.This is the story of Clint becoming a member of the Avengers initiative—whether he likes it or not.Inspired by Velvet Mace's signature Sentinel/Guide AU storyChameleon.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, Edwin Jarvis/Howard Stark, Nick Fury/Maria Hill, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 623
Kudos: 647





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VelvetMace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelvetMace/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** : This is a Clint Barton/Phil Coulson pairing. As with many Sentinel/Guide AUs, this story will contain a forced bonding and will therefore be highly questionable in terms of sexual consent. Furthermore, this is a dystopian AU that will explore themes of indentured servitude, subjugation, and captivity. This IS an eventual redemption story, but if these themes aren't your cup of tea, then this story isn't the one for you.
> 
> Additional tags will be added in future chapters.

**PROLOGUE**

Clint was nine years old when they came for his mother. He was woken up from a deep sleep by the sound of shouting—his father’s voice raised in anger, his mother’s in fear. Clint sat up in bed, his heart pounding in his chest, as other voices joined in the shouting. He clutched his bedsheets reflexively in his hands, as he stared at the door to his bedroom. It was open just a crack, letting mellow light spill into the small room. He listened as his father’s voice grew louder and more desperate, and then his mother started to cry.

There was a crash and the sound of breaking glass, before a stern voice called out over the din.

“Mr. Barton, that is enough. You are making this more difficult than it has to be.”

“Fuck you!” His father snarled. It was a tone of voice that Clint had never heard coming from his father—or from anyone else, for that matter. It was guttural and frenzied, and it terrified Clint to his core. He was off his bed in a flash, crawling beneath the mattress to hide among the dust balls and forgotten toys. As his mother began screaming, Clint pressed his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. He stayed like that for an interminable time, curled in on himself and wishing for the shouting to stop, when he abruptly realized that the house was silent. He squinted open his eyes, first one and then the other, and then he slowly lowered his hands.

The house was strangely quiet. He tilted his head, straining his ears as hard as he could. He could not hear anything—not his mother or his father, or the unfamiliar voices who had been shouting at them. His heart was racing now, thrumming painfully against his ribs. Had the strangers left? Were his mother and father all right? Why couldn’t he hear them, moving around the living room? The house was as quiet and still as the grave.

Clint braced his hands flat against the floor, making to crawl out from under the bed, when he heard a noise. He froze, going still from head to toe, as he strained to make out the sound. There was a _crunch_ of glass, the groan of heavy furniture being moved across the floor, and then footsteps approached from the living room. The steps were clipped, ringing off the hardwood floors of the hallway. Clint knew in an instant that the footsteps did not belong to either of his parents—they resembled nothing of his mother’s light-footed tread or his father’s plodding steps. Clint shimmied further beneath the bed, pressing his entire body back as far as he could manage. He lay perfectly still, breathing shallowly out of his mouth.

The footsteps steadily approached, stopping just outside of his bedroom door. There was the sound of low talking, hushed and serious, and then the door was pushed open. Clint had a brief moment in which he realized that there were two people standing in his doorway, before his bedroom light was turned on. As Clint watched, the strangers made their way into his bedroom—one walked towards his closet while the other stopped a short distance away from his bed. From his vantage point, Clint could see their dress shoes, black and gleaming.

“Clint?” A man called, his voice pitched low and soothing, “Are you in here?”

Clint heard a doorknob being turned, and he glanced to the side in time to see his closet door being pulled open. A moment later, the man in front of his bed knelt down, and then Clint was staring into an unfamiliar face. The man was middle-aged, with close-cut dark hair and a thin mustache.

“Hello Clint.” The man said softly, his expression friendly and non-threatening, “Would you please come out from under there?”

Fear closed up his throat in an instant and he vehemently shook his head.

The man nodded slowly, before glancing up at his companion. His expression did something complicated, and then the other man knelt down beside him. The second stranger was similarly dressed—a business suit, neatly pressed and tidy—with dark hair and a clean-shaven face.

“Hello Clint.” The second man said, “My name is Mr. Edwin. This is my friend, Mr. Howard. We would like to speak with you, if that’s alright.”

Clint swallowed around the lump in his throat, almost too terrified to speak. After a long moment, he managed to say, in a voice barely above a whisper, “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”

Mr. Howard smiled at him encouragingly, “Quite right, Clint, but we’re not strangers. You and I and Mr. Edwin are going to become very good friends.”

Clint stared distrustfully at the man. After an extended silence, he asked lowly, “Where are my mom and dad?”

Mr. Edwin’s expression softened with sympathy, “Your father is outside, speaking with our colleagues. He will be back in a moment. In the meantime, I had hoped that we could talk, just the three of us.”

Clint stared up at the two men, who had virtually identical looks of encouragement on their faces. They did not press him any further, apparently willing to wait until Clint felt comfortable enough to speak. After a protracted silence, he asked, “Talk about what?”

Mr. Howard and Mr. Edwin wanted to talk about many things. They asked about his school first, about the classes that he enjoyed (“Gym” had been his prompt answer, much to their amusement), and the teachers that he liked. Then they asked about his family next—questions about the quality of his home life, about whether he had any extended family. When Clint answered that he had a cousin, they wanted to know whether it was on his mother’s side or his father’s side. When he answered that it was his father’s brother, they seemed to lose interest. Then, Mr. Edwin asked Clint a question that took him by surprise.

“Do you have any imaginary friends?”

Clint stared at him in confusion, uncertain whether he had heard him correctly. “Huh?”

Mr. Edwin smiled at him encouragingly; it caused the skin around his eyes to crinkle.

“Do you have any imaginary friends? Friends that no one else can see?”

Clint’s mouth turned down in a frown, “I’m not a little kid.”

“Imaginary friends aren’t only for children, Clint.” Mr. Howard replied, “Sometimes, if a person is very lucky and very special, they can have imaginary friends even when they get older. Has your mother ever told you about her imaginary friend?”

Clint’s frown deepened. The man’s tone was cajoling and persuasive, as though he were trying to impart a truth of great significance.

“Mom doesn’t have an imaginary friend.” He replied at last.

Mr. Edwin and Mr. Howard exchanged a glance with one another, before Mr. Edwin prompted, gently, “Are you sure? It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Clint said, feeling suddenly defensive, “I want to see my dad.”

After Mr. Edwin and Mr. Howard finished asking him questions, they left his bedroom with a promise to see him again soon. Clint listened to their footsteps recede down the hall, and then he was out from underneath the bed in a shot. He tiptoed forward and peaked out of the room in time to see the two men step out the front door. He could hear the sound of raised voices, and then his father rushed into the house. His face was blotchy and flushed, and his shirt was torn at the collar. As soon as his father laid eyes on him, he ran down the hallway and scooped him up in his arms, crushing Clint to his chest. Clint hugged him back, burying his face into his father’s neck.

A moment later, his father knelt down and set Clint on his feet. His large palms settled on Clint’s shoulders as he gripped him tightly.

“Are you alright? Did they hurt you?”

Clint shook his head, unable to reply.

“What did they say to you Clint? I need you to think very carefully— _what did they say_?”

Stammering, Clint recounted all that he could remember of his conversation with Mr. Edwin and Mr. Howard. His father listened as he spoke, the flush in his face deepening to an angry vermillion. Occasionally he interrupted Clint to ask a question or to clarify something that he said, but otherwise his father was silent. When Clint stopped talking, his father took a shaky breath. Then, in a voice that was low and restrained, he told Clint about what had happened to his mother.

That was the day that Clint learned about Sentinels and Guides. He had heard the terms before, of course, whether on television or in passing conversation, but he had not known what the words had meant. As his father explained, Sentinels were humans with extraordinarily enhanced senses—they could hear things that were far away, could see things with clarity that others could not. They were faster, stronger, and more durable than average people. As a result, Sentinels tended to gravitate towards certain professions—the military, law enforcement, government work. However, owing to the nature of their enhanced capabilities, Sentinels needed a grounding force—someone who could pull them out of a zone, if they delved too deeply with their senses. That was the nature of a Guide, a person who could use their own abilities to give a Sentinel clarity and focus. Once, before the two world wars, the number of Sentinels and Guides had been relatively proportionate to one another. For reasons that no one could understand, however, the birth rate of healthy Guides had dropped precariously in the decades since. Now, the ratio of Guides to Sentinels was less than 1 to 20, which caused panic at all levels of government in the early 1950s. As a result, sweeping legislation had been passed that required all Guides to register their status as soon as they presented. Newly presented Guides were then separated from their families and taken to The Tower, a government institution that facilitated the training, education, and ultimately, the bonding of a Guide to a Sentinel. Once that occurred, the Guide surrendered their legal personhood, becoming instead an extension of their bonded Sentinel.

It was the basest form of slavery, his father had explained grimly. Guides had no legal rights, no citizenship, no legislative recourse at all. They were subject to the decisions of their bonded Sentinel and, to a lesser extent, the Department of Sentinel and Guide Affairs. As a result, many Guides hid their bearing and refused to register with the government. That was what had happened to his mother.

“Who were those men?” Clint asked quietly.

“Guidefinders.” His father answered, naked hostility in his voice, “Sentinels who are trained to track down and capture Guides who have hidden their bearing from the government.”

Clint’s heart lodged itself in his throat as the implications of his father’s words became clear.

“Dad… when’s mom coming home?”

His father’s eyes squeezed closed, his head pitching forward.

“Dad?” Clint prompted, alarm seeping into his voice.

“She’s not coming home, Clint.”

* * *

Several months after his mother was taken, Clint’s father woke him up in the middle of the night. Together, they silently packed a suitcase and loaded whatever they could carry into his father’s beat-up Toyota Tacoma. Then, they drove away, leaving everything else of their possessions and old lives behind. His father had explained, tersely and to the point, that the Tower would be monitoring Clint in case he began to exhibit signs of manifesting as a Guide. Unwilling to lose his only son as he had lost his wife, Clint’s father decided to hide. They spent the next four years traveling from state to state. First, they went to Louisiana, where they lived in a two-bedroom trailer for six months. His father taught him how to shoot firearms—rifles and handguns—in the murky bayous outside of Shreveport. As a retired Army Ranger, his father had an affinity and respect for firearms that he passed on to his son.

Then, they moved on to central Texas, where they rented a studio apartment from an elderly couple. It was there, in the sweltering heat of late August, that Clint manifested as a Guide. The biggest surprise of his transition was the appearance of his spirit animal—his imaginary friend, Clint thought wryly. It was a small, red-tailed hawk with sharp eyes and soft, brown plumage. She appeared to him inconsistently—a glimpse here, a few minutes there—but never for long. His father helped him through his manifestation as best he could, purchasing books about Guides from the local shop, paid for in cash. Unfortunately, while information about Sentinels was readily available, far less was known about Guides outside of the Tower. So, they muddled through the process together.

After Clint’s manifestation, his father was adamant that he learn how to defend himself. In the months that followed, he taught Clint a variety of hand-to-hand combat styles and, when he showed Clint all that he could, he paid an ex-Army friend under the table to continue Clint’s training. Clint proved to be a fast learner and a natural at hand-to-hand combat. His father called him a scrappy fighter, while John called him an out-boxer. Clint understood the underlying message—he was quick on his feet, agile, and graceful.

As much as Clint enjoyed sparring, he enjoyed shooting even more. He was a crack shot with a rifle, able to hit the bullseye at 1200 yards nine times out of ten. He was equally good with handguns—he preferred the weight of the Sig Sauer P320 with the seventeen round magazine. When John saw his proficiency with firearms, he set up an obstacle course on his rural acreage outside of Lewisburg, West Virginia. Clint loved the challenge of varied terrain and moving targets.

It was in West Virginia that Clint learned how to shoot a bow. It was late Autumn, with frost just beginning to gather on the foliage, when his father and John took him deer hunting. They set up a stand in the pre-dawn light and waited in the cold, their breath steaming the early morning air. As the first rays of sunshine began streaming over the treetops, Clint shot a six-point mule deer at sixty yards. The buck was dead before he hit the ground.

From that moment onward, the bow was Clint’s weapon of choice. He often went hunting in the forests around John’s farm. He enjoyed the challenge of smaller game, especially rabbit and pheasant. It was one afternoon in early spring that he realized his spirit guide was more than an invisible friend—she was an asset. He was stalking through the dense underbrush, as silent as a ghost, following a rabbit trail, when he heard her screech from the canopy. His head snapped up and he made eye contact with her, and all at once, he knew exactly where the rabbit was—curled beneath the ferns, hidden, less than a dozen feet away. Without looking, he nocked and loosed an arrow into the vegetation. The shot went straight through the rabbit’s heart, killing it instantly. It was then that Clint understood that his hawk was an extension of himself—and his abilities.

It was also in West Virginia, when Clint was thirteen years old, that his father died. He was in the middle of grocery shopping, his basket half-full of produce and cereal boxes, when he gasped and pitched forward, collapsing onto the floor. The coroner had declared the cause of death a brain aneurism, but the cause didn’t matter to Clint—whether it was a brain aneurism, a car crash, or a heart attack, the end result was the same. Clint was well and truly alone.

His first close brush with the Tower came shortly after his father died. When the autopsy report had been filled out and the certificate of death had been filed, Clint went back to John’s farm. He had nowhere else to go. John had been gruffly sympathetic, as was his nature, but Clint knew that he was on borrowed time. For all that the older man had mentored him, Clint was not his kin. When the doorbell rang late one evening six days after his father’s cremation, Clint knew with a certainty that he could not explain that he was in danger. He went very still, straining to listen as John stomped down the hallway towards the front door. When he heard the polite but professional voice ask John whether he knew a Clint Barton, Clint’s heart lodged itself in his throat. As quickly as he could manage, he retrieved his go-bag from the closet, grabbed the assortment of change off his nightstand, and then he shimmied out of the bedroom window. He stole quickly and silently through the woods, circling widely around the property. As he topped the small rise near the creek, Clint could make out the sight of four black SUVs parked in front of the house. Their headlights illuminated the front porch and the two men dressed in sharp-looking suits that were speaking with John through the screen door. 

All of a sudden, his hawk screeched loudly from where she circled overhead. In perfect unison, the two men jerked around, their heads snapping in her direction. As soon as they laid eyes on her, they rushed towards the vehicles, talking urgently into their earpieces and barking commands at their companions. Clint’s heart lodged itself in his throat as he realized, disbelievingly, that his hawk had been sighted. He stared at her, desperate and terrified, willing her to be quiet, to go away, to _disappear_. She tilted her head in his direction, as though in consideration, and then she tucked her wings close to her body and dove into the forest.

Clint didn’t waste any time to see whether she had successfully hidden herself. At the sound of men shouting to each other as they fanned out over the property, Clint made his way into the forest. He jogged at a leisurely pace, focusing as much on stealth as he was on speed. The entire time that he ran, he muttered to himself, like a mantra, _quick and quiet, quick and quiet, quick and quiet._

_You can’t catch me if you can’t find me._

By the time that the moon had reached its zenith, illuminating the sparse undergrowth of the mature forest, Clint could no longer hear his pursuers. He continued walking, wise enough to know that a fire would act like a homing beacon in the clear night air. As he unshouldered his bookbag and unzipped it to dig out a ration bar, Clint heard a faint _snap_ echo through the woods. He went very still, straining his ears to hear anything. A moment later, two men materialized from the shadows of the forest. They were dressed head-to-toe in black combat garb, walking with a stealth that belied their size. Clint silently shouldered his bag, making to slip into the undergrowth, when one of the men called out.

“We know that you’re here. No one’s going to hurt you.”

Clint closed his eyes and took a slow, shallow breath. He knew that a Sentinel’s senses were so acute that they could hear a heartbeat from a hundred yards away.

“It’s okay, Clint. You can come out now. We’re here to help.”

He knew that running would be pointless—they would hear every step that he made, every gasping breath that he took. So instead, Clint focused inwards and _willed_ the men to leave with every fiber of his being.

 _You can’t find me. You can’t find me._ He chanted, silently, like a prayer.

The two men walked forwards until they were close enough for Clint could see the whites of their eyes. One of the men raised his hand, pressing it against the receiver set in his ear, while the other tilted his head back and scented the air.

_You can’t find me. You can’t find me._

“Base this is echo-sigma, over.”

There was a faint crackle of static and then the man continued, “We are on his trail, four miles east-southeast of Highway 64. No contact yet. Over.”

The man who had scented the air narrowed his eyes in frustration, before turning to look at his companion.

“He has to be a projective empath. There’s no way I’ve tracked a thirteen-year-old baseline for nine miles and come up empty-handed.”

Clint’s heart sped up, and he thought, with all of his might and mane, **_You can’t find me._**

The man on the radio blinked, and then a stymied look crossed his face, “Base, this is echo-sigma. You’re going to have to send the helos—we can’t find him.” There was a pause, an audible crackle of static, and then he nodded to his companion, “They want us to circle back and check the creek bed.”

Bloodhound snorted, as though he were offended by the suggestion, “There wasn’t a hint of his scent by the creek.”

Earpiece raised his shoulders in a shrug, “They think he’ll follow the creek to the road.”

“Just my luck.” Bloodhound grumbled, adjusting the utility belt that was secured around his waist, “The first decent hunt in six months and we have a moron calling Ops.”

The men were less than a dozen feet away now, near enough that Clint could hear the creak of their leather vests and the rasp of their breathing.

“Let’s backtrack to the access road, see if we can’t pick up his scent again.” Bloodhound suggested. When Earpiece nodded his assent, the two men turned on their heel and began walking back the way they came. Clint knew a moment of envy for their ability to move in silence through the foliage, and then they were gone. Clint held his breath, counting slowly to one hundred, and then he walked in the opposite direction. As soon as he was sure that the Sentinels were well outside of hearing range, he broke into a run. He didn’t stop running for two straight days.

In the years that followed, Clint moved around as much as possible. He took odd jobs under the table, only accepting payment in cash and up front. He worked at the carnival for eighteen months as an acrobat and knife thrower, an experience that proved to be quite the education. Then he spent four months as an attendant at a gun range in Missouri, and another five months after that as a guide for wealthy hunters in South Dakota. As the years passed him by, Clint honed the skills that he needed to survive under the radar—skills of stealth, speed, and precision. He never allowed himself to let his guard down, and he never stayed in the same spot for more than six months at a time.

Despite all of his diligence, however, he had numerous close calls with Guidehunters over the years—some more close than others. The chase in Kentucky had nearly been disastrous—they had run him down for sixteen straight hours before he managed to elude them. After that, his face appeared on posters throughout the southeastern states with the words: HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN? printed in bold along the top. He had gone to ground for months before he felt comfortable enough to come within ten miles of a city center.

As a result, Clint developed something of a second-sense for knowing when he was in danger. So when he walked into the small café in a suburban town just outside of Indianapolis, he knew instantly that he was in trouble. There were no outward signs of concern—the few patrons in the shop chatted amiably with one another over coffee and pastries, the radio playing in the background. Yet he could not ignore the way that his heart sped up or how everything went very quiet in his head as he identified the exits and potential threats. When one man, who was sitting in the back of the shop with a newspaper spread out in front of him, glanced up at him for a moment longer than strictly polite, a single thought crossed Clint’s mind.

_Fuck._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note** : Thank-you all so much for your interest in and feedback on the first chapter! I was thunderstruck at the number of kudos, bookmarks, and subscriptions it received. Thank-you especially to everyone who left a comment detailing what they liked about the story. Constructive criticism is always welcome <3
> 
>  **Chapter Warnings** : Canon-typical violence, non-consensual touching, captivity.

Clint schooled his features into an unassuming, neutral expression as he moved to stand at the back of the line. As he walked, he relaxed his posture and pushed his hands into the pocket of his utility jacket. Clint resisted the urge to reach out with his empathy, to brush inquiringly against the man in the suit. He had learned from painful experience that any overt use of his abilities would alert nearby Sentinels of his presence. So instead, he attempted to affect an air of casualness. He knew that his posturing would do nothing to fool a Sentinel within range—they would be able to hear the thundering gallop of his heartbeat, smell the pungency of his stress hormones. Therefore, Clint did what he often did when he was cornered—he misdirected. As he stepped up to the counter, he smiled at the pretty blonde standing behind the cash register.

“Hey. Good morning.”

She smiled back at him. Her eyes were honey-brown and she had dimples in her cheeks.

“Good morning. What can I get you today?”

“I’ll have a coffee, black with two sugars.” Clint said and then he huffed awkwardly, “So… are you from around here?”

The young woman glanced at him over her shoulder as she poured the coffee into a disposable cup. His question seemed to amuse her, for the corners of her lips twitched up.

“Born and raised. Go Colts.” She replied dryly, coming back to the counter, “That’ll be a buck fifty.”

Clint pulled out his wallet and handed her a five dollar bill, accepting his coffee in return. He let himself shift from foot to foot, before he laughed uncomfortably, “Listen, so I never do this—but would you like to get dinner some time?”

The barista’s expression became equal parts flustered and taken aback. Before she could speak, however, Clint winced at her in apology, “Swing and a miss, huh?”

She laughed lightly, making to hand him back his change, “Sorry, I’m in a relationship.”

“He’s a lucky guy. Keep the change.” Clint replied with a smile, raising his cup in a gesture of farewell as he turned from the counter. As he moved away, he let his eyes sweep over the small café. The man who had made eye contact with him was still sitting at the table in the back, although now he was staring at his newspaper. The couple by the window were talking quietly to one another, but their postures were loose and relaxed. The elderly woman standing by the display of coffee mugs was unlikely to be a threat.

All and all, the little shop seemed entirely unassuming. Safe. So why did Clint feel like he was about to crawl out of his skin? He made a show of walking to the condiment counter, added additional sugar to his drink, and then he walked slowly back towards the entrance. He stood near the door for a long while, sipping at his coffee and staring out over the street. Little shops lined the road, with faded, peeling signage and brick facades. Traffic was light, mostly pick-up trucks and old sedans. No surprise there, it was farm country, after all. There were only a handful of pedestrians on the street, walking alone or in pairs. There were no black SUVs, no men in dark glasses and crisp suits, no helicopters.

Had he overreacted?

Almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind, Clint saw it—a flash out of the corner of his eye. He did not turn his head; he was familiar with the glint of a riflescope in the light of early morning. Clint turned around and walked towards the back of the shop. His pace was leisurely and unhurried, and he sipped at his coffee as though he were lost in thought. He did not look at the man in the suit as he passed his table, making his way down the hall towards the bathrooms. He glanced into the men’s room as he neared the doorway—two meters by one meter, no windows.

_No dice._

As soon as he was out of sight of the seating area, Clint’s pace quickened. As he neared the kitchens, Clint glanced over his shoulder to confirm that he wasn’t being followed, and then he ducked through the swinging doors. The kitchen was the same as every small-scale eatery that Clint had worked at under the table—gleaming silver surfaces, tidy prep area, the clatter of dishes and cutlery. He made his way down the narrow aisle towards the exit at the back, dropping his coffee in the trash as he passed.

“Hey, you can’t be in here, man.”

Clint smiled reassuringly at the cook—young guy, maybe mid-20s. Clean-shaven and well groomed.

“It’s fine, I’m here with the manager.”

“Turetsky?” The cook asked, confused.

“Yeah, Turetsky.” Clint confirmed, his gait not faltering in the slightest, “I’m going out for a smoke. Tell him I’ll back in five minutes.”

The cook shrugged, his gaze dropping once again to the omelet that he was whisking. Clint did not spare him a second glance, pushing open the exit and stepping into the back alley. As soon as he cleared the doorway, he stopped in his tracks. There were two men standing in the narrow corridor, between him and the street. As soon as they laid eyes on him, their expressions grew tense and wary.

“You’re a hard man to find, Clint.”

Although he could not prevent the way that his heart began drumming against his sternum, Clint affected an expression of confused surprise.

“Sorry, man. You got the wrong guy.”

The two men exchanged a glance, understanding passing between them in an instant. Then, one of the men—medium build, styled haircut, strong jaw—circled to the left, while the other man—taller and wider, built like a brick shithouse—moved to his right. Clint raised his hands appeasingly.

“Woah, woah, fellas. Listen, I don’t want any trouble here. I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m not that guy.”

Shithouse tilted his head and scented the air, something like hungry anticipation settling over his features. Clint resisted the urge to grit his teeth in response.

“So you’re not Clint Barton, twenty-four, of Waverly, Iowa?” He asked with a sardonic quirk of his lips. He was cocky, Clint realized at once, self-assured and over-confident. Clint could work with that.

“No man, my name’s Jeremy.” He replied, projecting every ounce of earnestness that he could manage, “I’ve never even been to Iowa.”

The man faltered for a moment, a look of uncertainty flashing across his face. Clint braced himself, pushing _unassuming-safe- **normal**_ at the two men, letting it roll off him in waves. The second man, the one who looked like a catalogue model, frowned at him.

“So why would Jeremy-whose-never-been-to-Iowa reek of stress hormones?” Calvin Klein challenged.

Clint spread his arms wide and raised his shoulders in a shrug, “Getting cornered by two dudes in an alley is stressful.”

He continued to project _unassuming-safe-normal_ at the two men, and he saw the moment that their uncertainty became clouded with confusion. Before Clint could press his advantage, however, there was an audible crackle of an earpiece. He felt his stomach bottom out at the faint, tinny sound of someone speaking.

Calvin Klein raised his hand to his ear, “Base, this is sigma-echo. Affirmative, contact has been made with target, but it’s not our mark.”

Clint’s heart lodged into his throat in an instant—he could obfuscate and misdirect a Sentinel up close, but he could not affect the person on the other end of the comm-line. He slid his feet shoulder-width apart, assuming a ready position. He could feel the epinephrine and cortisol pumping into his bloodstream as his body readied for flight or fight.

“No, it’s another guy. Jeremy something.” He continued, before glancing in Clint’s direction, “Yeah he’s right here. Back entrance to Lava Java.”

For the second time that day, Clint thought, succinctly, _fuck_.

“Understood, over.” The older man dropped his hand away from his earpiece, something like a grudging apology on his face, “Sorry, we have to take you in. The brass will sort it out.”

Clint breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

The two men stepped forward, their hands extended as though to escort him down the alleyway. Clint struck quickly and decisively—a kick to the side of Shithouse’s knee, a jab to his windpipe, and then, ducking under Calvin Klein’s reach, he snapped a quick punch into his solar plexus. As he fell to his knees, one hand clutching his abdomen and the other fumbling for his weapon, Clint brought the heel of his hand across his nose. Clint didn’t hesitate, taking off for the street as fast as his legs would carry him. He was aware that whoever was on the comms-line would be sending reinforcements to his position. It was imperative that he put as much distance between himself and Lava Java as possible before that happened.

Behind him, Clint could hear the sound of angry cursing and then the pounding of heavy footsteps. He did not spare a backwards glance as he burst out of the alleyway onto the sidewalk. He looked up and down the street just in time to see a convoy of sleek-looking black SUVs stream around corner. He did not wait to see how many there were—it was enough, that was all he needed to know. Understanding that stealth was no longer an option, Clint ran across the narrow road and into the space between two buildings. His senses were simultaneously spread-out and focused: he could feel the sweat beading at his temples, his breath burning in his lungs—yet, he was also aware of the squeal of tires and the sound of shouting in the distance, converging in his direction.

Clint broke from the building line into the small parking lot. It was poorly maintained, with grass growing through cracked pavement and surrounded by a rickety-looking chain-link fence. Beyond the fence, however, was a wide copse of Blue Ash trees that separated the little hamlet from the highway. On the other side of the highway was two hundred miles of mature-growth woodlands. Even without his gear or his weapons, he could disappear into that wilderness for as long as it took to lose his pursuers. 

He was half-way across the narrow lot when a tackle from behind sent him sprawling face-first into the pavement. Clint twisted, lashing out at the imposing weight pinning him to the ground. It took him less than a second to realize that it was Shithouse. The larger man was red-faced and sweating, as he grabbed Clint’s wrist and twisted his arm behind his back. Clint couldn’t help the yell of pain that escaped him—Shithouse was applying enough force to nearly dislocate his shoulder.

“Shut-up!” Shithouse growled, shoving his knee into the small of Clint’s back, effectively pinning him to the pavement.

“Get off me!” Clint snapped, trying to buck his hips. It was useless; the other man easily had four inches and thirty pounds on him.

All of a sudden, Clint felt the man’s hot, wet breath on the back of his neck. Shithouse leaned over him, planting one hand on the ground beside Clint’s head, and pushed his nose into the tender flesh below his ear. Clint went still, an instinct born of common sense and self-preservation, and then his eyes widened as the Sentinel audibly inhaled, scenting him.

“Get the fuck off me!” Clint snarled, snapping his head back in an attempt to injure the man on top of him. Shithouse growled again, low in his throat, before fisting his hand in Clint’s hair and shoving his face into the ground.

“Stop moving.” Shithouse ordered, and Clint could hear the breathless excitement in his voice. He inhaled again, deeper and more slowly, “You smell amazing.”

The man’s words caused dread to settle in Clint’s stomach like a block of cement. Before he could fathom a response, however, there was the sound of pounding footsteps as another person rushed up to them.

“Got him, did you?” A voice inquired, winded and wheezing. Clint recognized the man’s voice immediately as Calvin Klein. Rather than reply to his companion, however, Shithouse growled low in his throat. His hand tightened in Clint’s hair and on his wrist, and Clint grunted in pain. 

“What are you doing, Rumlow? Get up.”

Shithouse—Rumlow, Clint amended—growled again, crouching lower over Clint’s body.

“Are you shitting me right now? You idiot.” Calvin Klein groused, and then Clint heard the sound of footsteps as he walked into his line of sight, “Are you alright, Clint?”

“Get this _sonofabitch_ off of me.” Clint managed, through gritted teeth.

Before either man could speak, there were more pounding footsteps as reinforcements arrived. Clint struggled to control his abject fear at their numbers—he counted half a dozen, if he wasn’t mistaken. He had never faced odds like this before, not even in Kentucky.

“What’s this then?” An unfamiliar voice asked, his tone entirely unimpressed.

“I’m sorry, sir. I think he’s imprinting.” Calvin Klein replied, his tone equal parts apologetic and exasperated.

“Rumlow, get off him this instant. That is an order, Agent.”

Clint could not repress the sound of pain when Shithouse leaned his full weight into the knee on his back. If the Sentinel put any more strain on his arm, Clint was certain that it was going to snap from the pressure.

“We’re going to need a Guide or a tranquilizer. At this point, I’ll take either.” The unknown man said as he walked a wide circle around them. As soon as he entered Clint’s line of sight, he crouched down. Clint recognized him immediately—it was the man in the suit from the café. He had close-cut hair that was neatly styled, and an open, affable face. He stared hard at Clint, his expression searching and serious.

“Are you alright?”

Clint did not respond to the question—it was abundantly obvious that he was, in fact, not all right. Instead, he narrowed his eyes at the man, endeavoring to keep the fear off his face. The man looked at him for a moment longer, and then his eyes flicked up to Shithouse.

“Agent Rumlow, you’re hurting him. I know that you can smell the blood.”

The man’s words caught Clint by surprise; he hadn’t realized that he was bleeding. As soon as the words filtered through his consciousness, however, he became aware of the bright points of pain across his nose and chin. Clint exhaled sharply, blowing up a cloud of dust with his breath. Rumlow made a soft, pained sound, low in his throat. Then he pressed his face into the side of Clint’s neck again, nuzzling the tender flesh beneath his ear.

Clint jerked away from him in fear and disgust, as he snapped out, “ _Fuck off!_ ”

Rumlow stiffened and then his hand tightened in Clint’s hair, warningly. Clint grimaced in pain, certain that the Sentinel was going to yank his hair out by the root, when more footsteps echoed across the parking lot. The man from the café glanced over as the footsteps approached, and then stood up.

“Alpha Sentinel. Alpha Guide.” He greeted politely, “We have a bit of a situation, as you can see.”

“Agent Rumlow, look at me.” A woman’s voice called soothingly. Clint could feel the man on his back jerk in surprise, twisting to look in the direction of the voice. Clint heard light footsteps approach, barely audible over his own sharp, panting breaths, and then the woman spoke again, “That’s good, Agent Rumlow. You’ve done so well. It’s time to rest now.”

The woman came to a stop by Clint’s right side, but he could not see her with his face pressed into the pavement. A moment later, Rumlow moaned, long and low. It was a deeply upsetting sound, and it made Clint flinch in response. He could feel the Agent’s confusion and distress, despite his best efforts at muting his empathy. Then, all at once, the weight was gone off Clint’s back. He gasped in relief, automatically bringing both hands under his chest and pushing himself to his feet. Even before he straightened to his full height, Clint knew that he was in deep, deep shit.

He was standing in a wide semi-circle of Sentinels. In front of him was a woman, imperially slim and dressed in a form-fitting body suit. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tidy bun. She had one hand pressed Agent Rumlow’s cheek, the other on his wrist. The man had a dumbstruck expression on his face, faraway and relaxed. Beside her stood a tall man—black, bald, with an eyepatch. Despite his physical handicap, however, the Sentinel exuded a commanding presence that was impossible to ignore. He was staring down Clint with a take-no-bullshit expression on his face, his gaze clinical and searching.

“Hello Clint. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

His tone suggested that the words were baseless pleasantry, and Clint narrowed his eyes in response. Behind the man and the woman—Alpha Sentinel and Alpha Guide, they had been called—stood a semi-circle of Sentinels in varying states of dress. Some were wearing crisp-looking suits, with dark jackets and neutral ties, while others were in full combat gear. There were fourteen by Clint’s count, not including Calvin Klein and the man from the café—more than double any hunting party that Clint had faced in the past.

Heart-rending terror flooded through him as he realized the full extent of his predicament. As though in response to his unspoken desperation, the group became tense and wary. The Alpha Sentinel narrowed his one good eye at him.

“Are you going to accept your defeat with grace or are we going to have a problem?”

Clint bristled at the edge of impatient condescension in his tone.

“Are you asking if I have a problem with you forcibly detaining me and stripping away my personhood?” Clint returned, his voice sarcastic and cold in equal measures, “I’d have to say that’s a hard yes.”

“I don’t have time for this shit.” The Sentinel scoffed, evidentially at the end of his patience, “Get him processed and through medical, Coulson. We’re wheels up in thirty minutes.”

Clint tensed from head to toe, but the taller man turned on his heel and strode back towards the alley. The woman walked with him, her hands still on Agent Rumlow’s person as he trailed along beside her. As they passed, two Sentinels detached from the semi-circle surrounding Clint and followed them. The remainder of the Sentinels stared at him, their postures anticipative and predatory.

“Clint.”

Clint jerked around, startled, to find the man from the cafe was standing a short distance away. He cursed himself internally—he hadn’t even heard him approach.

“If you’ll come with me, we’ll have your injuries treated.”

The man raised one hand towards Clint, as though to rest against his back, while he gestured with his other hand towards Main Street. Clint sidestepped, narrowing his eyes at the man as he hissed, “Don’t touch me.”

Something hardened on the man’s face, and he shifted almost imperceptibly. Clint recognized the change in his stance at once—feet widened to shoulder-width apart, weight redistributed to the balls of his feet. It was a combat-ready stance. For all that the man in front of him looked friendly and non-threatening, Clint knew with certainty that he was trained in hand-to-hand combat.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Clint. Please, follow me.”

“Go to hell.”

The stranger sighed, as though in grim resignation, before nodding to the men behind Clint. Clint tensed, pivoting on his heel as he was grabbed by two, beefy Sentinels. He did not waste time bandying insults or swearing at them. As their hands closed over his biceps, he kicked out—his foot connected solidly with the knee of the nearest man who went down with a grunt of pain, half-pulling Clint down after him. As the second man adjusted his grip to compensate for the weight redistribution, Clint swept his left leg out from underneath him.

The crowd of Sentinels shifted restlessly, looking to one another for guidance. Before they could move in, however, strong hands pushed Clint to the pavement for the second time that day. He yelled in outrage, kicking his legs ineffectually, as his hands were handcuffed behind his back. The cuffs were tightened almost to the point of pain—tight enough to prevent him from dislocating his thumb to escape, but not so tight as to damage the skin of his wrists. Then, the man from the café hauled him to his feet.

“I see that we will have to re-visit the basics of close-quarters combat.” The man observed mildly, directing his words to the man that Clint had taken down.

“Yes, sir. My apologies, Agent Coulson.” The Sentinel replied respectfully. The man in the suit, _Agent Coulson_ , wrapped a palm around Clint’s shoulder and maneuvered him forward. Clint _did_ swear then—at great length and volume—as he was frog-marched across the parking lot and down the narrow alley. As they stepped onto the street, Clint’s stomach fell into his feet. The road had been cordoned off at both ends with yellow hazard tape. In the middle of the street were an assortment of vehicles—black SUVs and sedans, two transport trucks, and a blocky, white mobile clinic. Sentinels in dark suits and sunglasses stood in pairs and trios all along the street.

The sight shocked Clint to his core. The largest hunting party that had ever tracked him down had been six Sentinels and two Guides. This was beyond anything that he could have anticipated or prepared for.

As Clint’s pace faltered, Coulson turned to regard him. His gaze was shrewd and assessing, and he gave Clint a moment before ushering him towards the mobile clinic. The large trailer had the emblem of the Division of Sentinels and Guide Affairs emblazoned on its side next to an unfamiliar logo of an eagle with its wings spread wide. As they approached, a Sentinel stepped up to the trailer and slid open the door. Clint was guided up the narrow steps and into the shaded interior.

The inside of the mobile clinic was not dissimilar to that of an ambulance. Each wall was lined with shelves and cubicles that were protected by transparent plastic paneling. An array of medical equipment was bolted to walls, while two gurneys were located in the center of the space. Coulson guided Clint to sit on the nearest gurney, and then he stepped back to stare down at him considerately.

“If I take off those restraints, are you going to give me any trouble?”

Clint glared back at him, eyes narrowed and shoulders tense. The agent sighed, as though in exasperation, before folding his arms over his chest and leaning against the wall. 

“Suit yourself.”

Clint swallowed the abject rage he felt at the man’s cavalier manner. They stayed there in silence for an interminable time, Clint staring resolutely at the floor as Coulson watched him with a sharp eye. There was a quiet commotion outside, and then a moment later, a woman stepped into the clinic. She was young and attractive, with shoulder-length auburn hair and a friendly expression. Tellingly, she was wearing a white coat over her sensible skirt-suit. She stopped at the bottle of hand sanitizer set just inside the door, pumping it once and then rubbing her hands together. She retrieved a stethoscope and a clipboard, before crossing the space towards them.

“Hello Clint. My name is Dr. Simmons.” She greeted, her voice warm and professional. Clint tensed as she approached. She seemed unaffected by his anger, for she pulled a rolling stool out from beneath the desk and sat on it. She pushed forward until she was an arms-length away from him.

“I am told that you are unfamiliar with the in-take process.” She began, folding her hands over the clipboard in her lap, “I am going to ask you a series of medical questions. It is in your best interest to answer them honestly. Then, I will give you a cursory physical examination—a more detailed medical exam will be provided when you arrive at the Tower. Afterwards, I will treat your injuries. Do you have any questions?”

Clint narrowed his eyes at her, “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“Any procedural questions, that is.” She clarified unnecessarily. When Clint did not reply, she nodded understandingly and picked up the clipboard, “Do you have any allergies?”

Clint scoffed, but otherwise he did not reply.

The doctor looked at him appraisingly, “Clint, I understand that you are feeling uncooperative, but it is important that we have this information on record.”

“You’re delusional if you think I’ll be complicit to any part of this.”

“Clint.” Coulson rebuked from his spot against the wall, but Clint did not acknowledge him.

Seeing the hostility on his face, the doctor switched tactics, “We can find all the information that we require through a blood draw, Mr. Barton. It would be quicker and easier to answer my questions. Now, do you have any allergies?”

Clint worked his jaw, weighing the pros and cons of resistance _versus_ strategic capitulation, when the doctor shrugged.

“Very well. Agent Coulson, I’ll need your assistance.”

Clint stiffened in alarm as Coulson pushed off the wall, and then he found himself blurting, “Amoxicillin and the varicella vaccine.”

The doctor stared at him considerately before she nodded, marking something down on the clipboard. “Food allergies?”

Clint felt himself flush, and after an extended silence, he muttered, “None that I know of.”

“Blood type?”

“I don’t know.”

“Date of your last full physical?”

“I don’t know.” He replied, and when she looked at him disapprovingly, he snapped, “I don’t know. It’s been years.”

“When did you manifest as a Guide?”

“Next question.”

“Clint.” Coulson warned, his voice sharper this time.

“If you can get that answer from a blood draw, you’re welcome to try.” He returned coldly.

The doctor frowned at him faintly, and then she continued her line of questioning. The topics seemed to jump around with no logical consistency—she asked him about his height and weight, whether he had any chest pains or difficulty breathing, asked him whether he smoked (“No”) or drank (“Occasionally”) or used recreational drugs (“No”). When she asked him about the number of his sexual partners, he narrowed his eyes at her.

“That’s none of your business.”

“It’s entirely our business.” She returned smoothly, “And it is relevant to your future as a Guide.”

In truth, Clint had led a relatively solitary life in the years since his father’s death. It was difficult to entice a woman into bed for anything other than a one-night stand given his proclivity to pick up and move every few months. The thrill of casual sex had diminished over the years as the danger posed by the Tower increased—he could never be certain whether the woman making eyes at him across the bar was a civilian or a honeypot.

“I’m not answering that.”

The doctor stared at him for a long moment before she asked, directly, “Do you have any sexually transmitted infections?”

Clint’s jaw jumped but he answered her readily enough, “No.”

“We will have to confirm that, of course.” She replied.

“Of course.” Clint replied, snidely.

After that, the doctor pulled the stethoscope from around her neck and stood up. Clint tensed warily, but otherwise he did not react. 

“I am going to give you a cursory physical exam. I’ll listen to your heart and lungs, check your lymph nodes and glands, and take your temperature. Is that alright?”

Clint pantomimed an expression of wide-eyed surprise, “Oh, are we taking my consent into consideration again?”

“We never stopped taking your consent into consideration.” She replied promptly, “But it neither supersedes my medical judgement nor the law. I understand that this is difficult for you, but needs will out.”

“And if I refuse?” Clint asked lowly.

“Then Agent Coulson will strap you to this gurney and I’ll be as quick as I can.”

Silence fell between them as Clint considered her words. He had no doubt of her sincerity or of Coulson’s ability to wrestle him back onto the mattress. The unassuming agent had proven himself to be a capable fighter, and Clint was hobbled by the restraints on his wrists. It would be a humiliating experience at best, and would result in injury or increased security at worst—both of which would reduce his ability to fight what was to come.

With his face flushed a brilliant crimson, Clint nodded his head.

True to her word, the physician was quick and capable. She warmed the stethoscope on the palm of her hand before sliding it beneath the collar of his shirt. She listened for a moment and then instructed him to take a deep breath. He complied, and then she moved the instrument across his chest and repeated her instructions. When she finished, she stepped into the space between his legs—he was aware of Coulson moving away from the wall to stand by his side. She ran her hands along the underside of his jaw, pressing with her fingertips. Then, she slid her hands down the sides of his neck and rubbed the pads of two fingers into the tender spot near his tendons. His flush deepened as she murmured about glands and scent, but before he had time to dwell on his discomfort, she withdrew a penlight from the pocket of her coat.

“Follow my finger please, Clint.”

He obliged her, blinking in discomfort as she flashed the light over his eyes. Seemingly satisfied with whatever she found, the doctor tucked the penlight away and retrieved a digital ear thermometer. When the instrument beeped and flashed green, she murmured at him approvingly.

“There, that wasn’t so horrible, was it?”

Clint did not deign to reply, and she did not press him to answer. She stepped aside, opening one of the transparent plastic panels to gather an assortment of medical supplies. She loaded the items onto a tray—antiseptic, medical-grade tweezers, gauze, ointment—and then returned to the stool in front of him. With surprising care, she proceeded to clean the wounds on his face. He was informed that he had a laceration across his nose and forehead and road rash along his jawline. The injuries to his face were inconsequential, but the road rash hurt like hell—more so when she began to dig debris out from the weeping wound.

After he was bandaged up, the doctor smiled up at Coulson, “He’s all yours, Agent.”

Coulson nodded, “Thank-you, Doctor.”

Then, Coulson was guiding Clint to his feet and out of the mobile clinic. The street remained unchanged from last he saw it—Sentinels kept curious onlookers at bay as others patrolled the perimeter. Coulson led him to a black sports utility vehicle, which was waiting with its doors open. With one hand on the top of Clint’s head, the agent guided him into the car, before climbing in after him.

“Lean forward, please.” Coulson instructed. He was calm and professional, and something within Clint responded to the note of authority in his voice. Without a word, he leaned forward and presented his wrists to the agent. Coulson unlocked the handcuffs, pulling Clint’s arms forward and securing his wrists in front of him. Then, the agent leaned across him—Clint stiffened at the sudden full-bodied contact—and retrieved the seatbelt, buckling Clint into the seat a moment later.

The sound of the buckle fastening caused Clint to jerk in a full-bodied flinch. He struggled to control his breathing, which was becoming quicker and more shallow. Coulson turned to regard him, sympathetic understanding on his face.

“You’re alright, Clint. No one’s going to hurt you. You’re safe.”

Clint barked a harsh laugh, a sound of derision and disbelief. Coulson watched him for a moment longer, and then he brought a hand to rest against the back of Clint’s neck. His thumb smoothed over Clint’s sweaty skin, and then the agent applied gentle, persistent pressure, lowering Clint’s head until it rested on his knees.

“Deep breaths, Clint. In through your nose, out through your mouth.” Coulson instructed, his voice pitched low and soothing. 

Unable to see an alternative, Clint squeezed his eyes closed and obeyed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: In an effort to merge the Avengers universe with the Sentinel universe, I have renamed SHIELD headquarters to the Tower (rather than the Triskelion).
> 
>  **Chapter Warnings** \- Canon-typical violence, non-consensual touching, non-consensual medical exam.

Clint took a long, slow breath. Coulson’s hand was warm and dry on the back of his neck. His touch was paradoxical—simultaneously calming and distressing. Clint took another breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth. He could hear the bustle of vehicles and shouting through the open door as the hunting party prepared to depart. The thought caused a shudder to run down his back, and Coulson’s grip tightened minutely in response.

The driver’s side door opened abruptly, startling him, and an older man in a charcoal suit climbed into the car. He glanced into the backseat as he settled behind the steering wheel, his eyebrows quirking up, but otherwise he did not comment. Clint felt himself flush in angry humiliation, and he jerked away from Coulson’s hand as he straightened up. The agent let him go, twisting to retrieve his own seatbelt which he buckled a moment later.

The man in the driver’s seat turned the key in the ignition, before fiddling with the vents on the dash. As cool air began wafting through the cabin, both passenger doors opened. Calvin Klein climbed into the front seat, settling down and pulling the seatbelt across his chest. At the same time, an unknown man sat down beside Clint. Clint glanced sidelong at him, shoulders tense and eyes narrowed, but the man just smiled back at him. He was middle-aged and thin, with wavy dark hair that was too long to be considered regulation-length. Unlike the other men in the vehicle, the stranger was dressed in a button-up collared shirt and slacks. No suit jacket or tie, no earpiece.

As the driver shifted gear and began accelerating down the road, the unknown man cleared his throat.

“It’s nice to meet you. My name’s Bruce.”

Clint glanced back at him, but he did not reply. He was certain that the man already knew his name, and he would be damned before exchanging idle pleasantries with him. Clint turned back towards the windshield in time to see their car fall in behind an identical-looking black SUV. The convoy drove down Main Street, turned onto Bicentennial Drive, and then headed towards the highway. Clint’s heartbeat tripped into double-time at the realization, and he clenched his hands into fists, willing his physiology to stop betraying his anxiety. He knew that Calvin Klein was a Sentinel, and he was reasonably confident that Coulson was as well.

They drove in silence for a long while before Clint asked, flatly, “Where are we going?"

Calvin Klein glanced into the rearview mirror, evidentially surprised to hear him speak, but it was Coulson who answered.

“The airport. From there we’ll be flying to a private airstrip outside of Arlington, Virginia.”

Clint turned to look at him, a frown pulling down the corners of his mouth. He had not expected a straightforward answer to his question. That they were not attempting to conceal their route or their destination suggested they had no concerns about their ability to prevent his escape. It was an unsettling thought. Unconsciously, Clint rubbed the metal cuff that encircled his wrist.

Out of the corner of his eye, Clint saw Coulson glance down at his hands. The agent’s mouth firmed into a thin line as he watched Clint finger the handcuffs, but otherwise he did not react.

They drove in silence for the better part of ten minutes, the little suburban hamlet falling away, replaced with sprawling countryside. Clint regulated his breathing, in through his nose and out through his mouth, as they pulled onto the rural route that would take them to the highway. A glance in the rearview mirror confirmed that the convoy was spread out down the road for the better part of half a mile—this would be his best chance. Only after his heartbeat had slowed to something closer to baseline normal did he thread a tendril of his empathy towards the driver. Clint kept the touch small and unobtrusive in an effort to conceal his actions from the Sentinels in the car. When neither Coulson nor Calvin Klein reacted, he deepened the touch a scant fraction. He could glean the driver’s surface emotions—a feeling of pride, of professional satisfaction, and the hint boredom. Steeling himself, Clint pushed in a little deeper, and then he began to project _stop-stop- **stop** _into the driver’s mind.

The driver shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. Clint planted his feet firmly against the floor of the car, deepening his suggestion with a hint of urgency. He knew that he would have to incapacitate Coulson as quickly as possible. Calvin Klein would be hampered by his spot in the passenger seat, and Bruce didn’t look terribly imposing. He would have ten seconds, maximum, from the time that they stopped until the first car of the convoy would be on him. It was a thousand-to-one odds, but it was the best chance that he was going to get. Once he was on the airplane, he was finished.

Clint leaned into the driver’s mental presence, edging his projection with the hint of _command_ , when Bruce’s hand came down on his wrist.

“That’s enough, Clint.”

Clint tried to jerk away, but Bruce’s grip was shockingly strong. The driver glanced into the backseat, surprised by the command. As Clint’s concentration broke, his tenuous connection with the older man fell apart.

“Let go of me.” He demanded, yanking his arm away again, to no avail. Clint was aware of Coulson stiffening beside him, straightening up in his seat.

Bruce’s expression was mild, and he did not release his grip on Clint’s wrist.

“Settle down.” Calvin Klein commanded sharply from the front seat.

“Fuck you.” Clint snapped back, grabbing Bruce’s fingers in an effort to pry the other man’s hand off him. Bruce stared at him considerately for a moment, and then Clint felt a gentle touch in his mind. It was all relaxation and calm, like a warm bath after a long day. Clint drew in a sharp breath in surprise, and then the touch deepened. He could feel his anger and hostility leaking away, and he had a moment of profound shock—until he realized that Bruce was a Guide. Rage swept through him in an instant as he realized what the other man was doing. His eyes snapped up to Bruce’s face. The Guide was staring at him with an expression of mild exasperation, as though Clint were being unreasonably difficult.

“Stop it.” Clint growled through clenched teeth.

“Bruce?” Coulson asked.

“Nothing I can’t handle, Agent Coulson.”

Again, the touch in his mind deepened and Clint felt a wave of lethargy wash over him, sapping away at his rage and fear. His muscles began to loosen of their own accord, and Clint realized that he had scant seconds before he was reduced to mindlessness as Rumlow had been. In abject desperation, Clint lunged across the seat at the man. The Guide’s eyes widened in surprise, and he released Clint’s wrist in order to protect himself. Before Clint could get his hands around Bruce’s throat, however, Coulson was on him. The agent got one arm around Clint’s upper chest and neck, the other around his torso, and then the agent was pulling him backwards. In the front of the car, Calvin Klein was yelling at Clint and at Coulson, and the driver was speaking urgently into a CB radio. 

“Put him under, Banner!” Coulson commanded sharply, “Now!”

Clint grunted in pain as Coulson leaned backwards, applying pressure to Clint’s windpipe. He had no choice but to raise his hands to the agent’s arm, yanking ineffectually at him. Bruce stared at him in wide-eyed surprise for a heartbeat, and then he shifted forward, pressing his palms against the sides of Clint’s face.

Clint’s breath wheezed out of him in short, sharp pants. As he felt Bruce’s mental touch push into his mind, Clint let go of Coulson’s arm, reaching back to claw at the agent’s eyes. Coulson leaned his head away, effortlessly dodging Clint’s attack. Clint kicked his feet, trying to get Bruce’s instep, as dark spots gathered at the corners of his vision. Then, Bruce broke through Clint’s mental defenses. With a weak moan, Clint felt himself swept away in a tidal wave of soothing _calm-relaxation- **sleep**. _He went limp all at once, his head lolling back onto Coulson’s shoulder.

The last thing that Clint felt as darkness claimed him was the touch of Coulson’s hands smoothing over his neck as the agent checked him for injury.

* * *

“Clint. Open your eyes for me.”

Clint groaned softly. He felt strange, his mind distant and fuzzy.

“Now, please Clint.”

With considerable effort, Clint squinted open his eyes and blinked in disorientation. He was sitting in a plush seat, white leather and comfortable. It was identical to the other seating that filled the small cabin in which he found himself. He stared around in confusion for a long moment, and then his memories of the morning rose up from the ichor of his thoughts, like oil separating from water. He stiffened from head to toe, panic coursing through him in an instant.

“Calm down.” Coulson instructed him, not unkindly, “You’re alright.”

Clint looked in the direction of his voice to find the agent in the seat next to him. He tried to move his hands to grasp the armrests, but was immediately prevented from doing so by the handcuffs that were secured around his wrists and affixed to a heavy belt around his waist. He stared at the belt in disbelief before raising his eyes to look at Coulson. The agent shrugged unapologetically in response.

“What did you think would happen? You attacked a Guide.”

“He attacked me first.” Clint hissed.

“Because you tried to manipulate the driver.”

Clint did not reply—he could not, in that moment, his throat was so tight with anger. Instead, he clenched his hands into fists, staring steadfastly at the seat in front of him. The cabin of the private jet—and it was a private jet, Clint realized with sinking certainty—was paneled in white and cream, which contrasted tastefully with the mahogany tables and dark gray carpet. He could tell by the distant roar and the way the seat was vibrating beneath him that they were already in the air. He and Coulson were located towards the back of the plane—an assortment of agents, sitting alone and in pairs, were between them and the front of the cabin. 

“Clint.” Coulson prompted, drawing Clint’s attention back to him. Clint turned to regard the man, only to see that he was holding a bottle of water, “Are you thirsty?”

Clint’s eyes flicked to the bottle in his hands. He _was_ thirsty, his mouth tacky and dry. Rather than answer him, however, he asked instead, “How long was I out?”

“Almost four hours.” Coulson replied, “We will be landing shortly.”

The news settled uncomfortably in Clint’s stomach. He had no recollection of what had happened during the four hours that he had been unaware—he wasn’t even certain whether he had been unconscious. Rumlow had been awake and able to follow commands, after all. It left him feeling vulnerable and exposed.

“Clint?” Coulson prompted again, and Clint’s eyes darted back to him. The agent quirked an eyebrow at him, gesturing meaningfully with the bottle of water. Clint looked from the bottle to his hands, which were bound at his waist, before looking at Coulson with a question on his face. Rather than reply, Coulson twisted the cap off the bottle of water and brought it towards Clint’s lips. Clint jerked away, his head colliding with the back of the seat as he narrowed his eyes at the agent.

“Undo my hands.” Clint said, although it came out sounding more like a request than a demand.

Coulson shook his head minutely, his expression carefully neutral.

“If you want something to drink, this is the way it’s going to be.”

Clint felt an angry, embarrassed flush spread across his face, and he shook his head. Although Coulson’s professional demeanor did not falter, his mouth turned down in a frown.

“I had a higher estimation of your sense, Clint.” He admonished mildly, “Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face.”

Clint narrowed his eyes again, turning his head away. Coulson stared at him for a moment longer, before capping the bottle and tucking it into the seatback in front of them.

“Let me know if you change your mind. It’s dry in here.” The agent said. He leaned back, crossing one ankle over his knee, and picked up a magazine from the seat beside him. He flipped through the glossy pages of _Better Homes and Gardens_ with every evidence of enjoyment.

Clint stared across the cabin, sharp eyes looking for anything that could give him an advantage. He stretched out his empathy, like a warm breeze, and was unsurprised to find that there were six Sentinels, including Coulson himself, four mutes, and one other Guide in the cabin. Although he did not dare push in past surface thoughts, he was still able to pick up faint echoes of _comradery_ , _satisfaction,_ and from somewhere nearer the front of the cabin, _disappointment_.

Clint narrowed his eyes. _Fuck you too, you asshole._

“Clint.” Coulson said mildly, without looking up from his magazine, “What are you doing?”

“Reconnoitering.” He answered, sardonically.

Coulson did not reply, but Clint pulled his empathy back towards himself all the same. He sat there in silence for an interminable time, watching the comings and goings of the agents, before a man dressed in a nondescript suit made his way through the cabin, instructing them to prepare for landing. Coulson stowed his tray and fastened his seatbelt in response, giving Clint a cursory look. Seemingly satisfied with whatever he saw, the agent settled back in his seat to wait.

A little more than fifteen minutes later, they smoothly touched down in Arlington—or at least, it might have been Arlington. Clint did not trust Coulson to have been forthright with the information that he shared. As soon as the jet was taxiing down the runway, Coulson unfastened his seatbelt. He tucked the magazine into the seatback in front of him and pulled out the bottle of water. The other agents also prepared to disembark, standing up and gathering suit jackets and stuffing dossiers into briefcases.

Clint watched them all with tension gathering in his shoulders and anxiety pooling in his gut. He knew that he was in a hopeless situation, outnumbered and restrained. Yet, as Coulson unfastened his seatbelt and helped Clint to his feet, he gritted his teeth and reminded himself that, for all that things looked grim, he was not helpless. He would endure and he would escape.

Coulson guided Clint down the narrow aisle, passing several agents on the way, to stand at the front of the cabin. As they waited for the hatch to be opened, Coulson retrieved a pair of sunglasses and slipped them on. A moment later, bright sunshine flooded into the front of the plane as the airstep was lowered to the tarmac. Clint winced in response, his eyes watering in the late afternoon light, as Coulson walked him down the steps and towards a cluster of waiting vehicles. As he had that morning, Coulson placed a hand on Clint’s head and maneuvered him into the back of one SUV, before climbing in after him.

As the agent fastened Clint’s seatbelt, he glanced up at him, “Any trouble and you’ll be put under again. Do you understand?”

A muscle jumped in Clint’s jaw as he answered, stiffly, “Yes, sir.”

The honorific had been intended as an insult, and Clint was dismayed when it came out more like a capitulation instead. Coulson’s eyes roved over his face, as though gauging his sincerity, before he sat back and fastened his own seatbelt. Moments later, the vehicle filled with more Sentinels and Bruce, who sat in the back beside Clint. The sight of him made Clint’s heart race with barely restrained fury. When Bruce smiled at him awkwardly, almost apologetically, Clint turned his head and stared steadfastly out the windshield.

The drive was uneventful. The convoy made its way from the airfield before turning onto the I-95 North. Clint watched their procession with sharp eyes and no small degree of interest. John’s farm in West Virginia had been as far east as Clint had ever traveled. The Division of Sentinel and Guide Affair’s power was consolidated in the upper Eastern Seaboard, from DC to New York City to Boston, with conclaves in Philadelphia and Delaware. Clint had avoided the area like the plague ever since he had presented as a Guide. As they crossed the Potomac River, Clint stared in barely concealed fascination at the monuments that he could just make out through the dense foliage. There was the backend of the Lincoln memorial and, further away, the top of the Washington monument. The convoy turned south, and then all traces of touristic curiosity vanished in an instant. There, rising like a fortress in the middle of the Potomac River, was the Tower, the DSGA’s primary facility. The Tower was the center of its political and ideological power—and it was there that they were headed.

The anxiety in Clint’s gut sharpened into fear. To his knowledge, newly presented Sentinels and Guides were taken to regional facilities in order to be processed and bonded. He had no idea why he was being taken to the Tower, but he was sure that it did not bode well for him. The convoy turned onto a long bridge that led to the facility. The driver slowed to a stop in front of a checkpoint halfway across, before rolling down the window. A Sentinel in full combat gear stepped up to the vehicle, and the driver handed him an identification badge. The Sentinel looked at the badge, and then glanced into the backseat as a smile spread across his face.

“Welcome back, Agent Coulson. Congratulations on the successful hunt.”

Clint stiffened in affront, and Coulson directed a bland smile in the Sentinel’s direction.

“Thank-you Jennings.”

The Sentinel stepped back, motioning to his partner who raised the barricade in front of them, and then he waved their vehicle through. The driver accelerated forward and the Tower rose up in front of them, a monolith stark against the azure sky. Clint huffed a shallow breath and then muttered sarcastically, “Well, you certainly know how to make an impression.”

To Clint’s surprise, Bruce laughed aloud and the corners of Coulson’s lips twitched up.

“Yeah, the Tower is an impressive building alright.” The driver said over his shoulder, “Over 6.6 million square feet in area, twenty-eight floors, and top-of-the line security. It’s unrivaled anywhere in the world.”

“You must be very proud.” Clint replied, voice inflectionless.

The driver was clearly able to understand the insult in Clint’s words, for he lapsed into silence. They made their way across the bridge, before taking a right turn down a wide, semi-circular ramp, which brought them into the underbelly of the facility. As they slipped into the darkness of the parking garage, Clint twisted in his seat and stared out the back window at the receding sunlight. It was gone a moment later, disappearing behind the corner as they drove.

They followed the markings on the cement, going down several levels, before they approached an open area in front of a long row of elevators. The driver pulled to a stop and parked, and then he and the other occupants climbed out of the car. After they were alone, Coulson unfastened his seatbelt and then Clint’s, before he paused and looked up at him.

“I know it seems unlikely, but you are safe here. Safer than you have been for a long time. The next few days will be difficult, but then you’ll come to understand.”

Clint was surprised by the conflicting emotions that arose within him at the agent’s reassuring words. There was hatred and anger and fear, which he understood readily enough, but there was also a glimmer of appreciation and relief that he could not understand. After a long moment, Clint looked away, but then he confused himself by murmuring, “Thanks.”

Coulson nodded, and then took Clint by the bicep and guided him out of the car. The men walked across the open space to the elevators, where Calvin Klein, Bruce, and two other Sentinels stood waiting. Clint schooled his features into a reasonable facsimile of nonchalance as they stepped into the lift. Calvin Klein hit a button, and then they began to descend. There were no floor lights to indicate how far they traveled, but eventually the elevator slowed to a stop and the doors slid open revealing a long, featureless hallway.

The group filed out, footsteps ringing down the corridor as they walked. They took a corner, and then another, and then they stepped into a large, airy clinic. The room was neat and tidy, with four beds arranged in pairs on opposite walls. There were cabinets filled with an assortment of medical supplies, and equipment was positioned strategically around the room. At once, Dr. Simmons’ words came back to him, and Clint tensed from head to toe.

“Easy, Clint.” Bruce soothed. Clint’s head snapped in his direction, his glare hot enough to melt steel, when two physicians entered the room. One was an older man, with grizzled hair and deep lines etched into his face. The other was a younger woman, who had a serious and stern countenance about her. They both wore lab coats and had stethoscopes slung around their necks.

“I understand there was some trouble in transit.” The older man said, in lieu of a greeting.

“Nothing substantial.” Calvin Klein replied, and Clint felt vaguely insulted by his tone.

“I see.” The old man said, folding his arms over his chest and pinning Clint with a piercing look, “You are here for a physical evaluation and bloodwork. Are you going to cooperate?”

Clint glanced surreptitiously around the room. Four Sentinels, a Guide, and two physicians of unknown bearing—but surely with enough medical knowledge to subdue him if necessary. He was restrained and exhausted and weaponless. Was his pride worth the injuries and humiliation that he would surely suffer for refusing to submit to these people?

After a long moment, Clint set his jaw and ground out, “What do I have to do?”

The doctor looked at him appraisingly for a long moment, and then he said, “You’ll take off your clothing, provide a urine sample, submit to a blood draw and cheek swab, and then we will give you a complete physical. It’ll take twenty minutes, tops.”

Clint breathed out slowly through his nose, before he flatly asked, “Do I need an audience for this?”

“I don’t know. Do you?” The doctor challenged.

“No. Thank-you.” Clint forced himself to reply.

“Very well.” The doctor replied, “Sentinels, please wait outside. Bruce, I would appreciate your assistance.”

“Of course.” Bruce replied, at the same time Clint snapped, “Not a chance.”

The doctor’s bushy eyebrows rose to his hairline, “Dr. Banner’s presence is non-negotiable, I’m afraid. If it’s your modesty that you’re concerned about, one of his many degrees is a medical doctorate.”

Clint grit his teeth until his jaw ached.

“Fine.”

Calvin Klein and the two unknown agents made their way out of the room. Coulson stared at him for a long moment, and then he stepped forward, unfastening Clint’s restraints—first the handcuffs and then the heavy belt around his waist. Coulson laid the items in plain view on the nearest bed, as though in warning, and then he turned and strode from the infirmary.

Clint rubbed his wrists self-consciously, turning to regard the two physicians. The older man was rummaging around in one of the cabinets, retrieving a variety of medical supplies and laying them out on a small tray. The younger woman approached him with a bundle of cloth and a familiar-looking plastic cup in her hands.

“There is a bathroom through that door there. Please get undressed and then put on this gown. You can leave your urine sample on the sink.”

“I bet you say that to all the guys.” Clint replied dryly, accepting the items from her. From his spot leaning against the wall, Bruce huffed a laugh.

Clint padded across the room, stepping into the bathroom and shutting the door. As soon as the door was closed, he leaned back against it, planting his hands on his knees and bending forward. He allowed himself a moment of weakness, sucking in great gasping breaths as he struggled to get himself under control. He had never felt this trapped or alone in his entire life, not even after his father had died. After a few agonizing moments, Clint managed to collect himself and he crossed the small room towards the sink. He turned on the tap, sticking his mouth under the faucet as he drank his fill. When he finished, he splashed water on his face and began taking off clothes. First was his jacket, faded army green and familiar. Then his thick Henley, his undershirt, and his boots. He hesitated for a long moment with his hands on his fly, before he unfastened his pants and pulled them off. His boxers followed next, and he folded his clothing neatly and placed it in a pile on the floor.

Clint grabbed the plastic cup, before crossing the room towards the toilet. He toyed with the idea of refusing to provide a urine sample, but with conscious effort, he opted to choose his battles more carefully. He quickly filled the cup, capped it off, and then finished urinating. Then he washed his hands, left the cup on the sink as instructed, and pulled on the loose-fitting hospital gown. It fastened on the side, unlike every hospital gown that he had seen on television. He reluctantly tied off the fasteners and then pulled open the bathroom door.

The two physicians and Bruce were standing across the room, talking amongst themselves. Clint put one foot in front of the other, and they turned as he approached.

“You didn’t manage to slip down the drain, I see.” The woman said.

“I’m glad that my situation is amusing to you.” He bit back, offended. The older doctor directed a disapproving look at his colleague, before he stepped aside and gestured towards the scale.

The medical exam proved to be more tolerable than Clint had expected. They took his height and weight, and then directed him to sit on a nearby gurney. The older doctor swabbed the crook of his elbow, before sliding the bevel of a needle into a vein and withdrawing six vials of blood. He handed each vial to his colleague, who labeled and organized them away. The same thing happened for the cheek swabs that he took a moment later. Then, the grizzled doctor pulled the stethoscope from around his neck and began the physical exam. As the doctor worked, Clint began to drift in a kind of apathetic fog. When he took Clint’s vitals, the doctor would comment to his colleague, who scribbled notes onto her clipboard. Evidentially, Clint’s heartrate was normal, his blood pressure slightly elevated (“Understandable, considering.” the doctor muttered to himself), body temperature was normal, and oxygen saturation was normal.

Then, the doctor gestured for Clint to lie back against the gurney. He hesitated for a moment, suddenly uncertain, when he felt a wave of indifference wash over him. The medical exam had been easier than he had expected, after all. He could do this—he had nothing to worry about. With a soft sigh, Clint settled back against the mattress. The doctor murmured at him approvingly, untying his gown with quick, precise movements before pulling the material aside. His sense of contentment deepened, and Clint didn’t so much as flinch as the doctor began pressing firmly over his bare abdomen. By the time that the doctor began to examine his genitals, Clint was staring, mindless and content, at the ceiling. He felt relaxed in a full-bodied way that he had only ever experienced once before, when he had broken his arm. The emergency room doctors had given him Schedule II narcotics that had knocked him on his ass for two straight days. 

“You’ve broken your arm?” The doctor asked in surprise, and Clint realized that he had been thinking aloud.

Clint hummed in agreement, “I was sixteen. I fell off the trapeze and landed wrong.”

“The trapeze?” The doctor repeated, amusement coloring his voice.

“I worked in the circus for a while.”

“I don’t think we have that in your file.” The doctor replied dryly, before he re-fastened Clint’s hospital gown. As he stepped away and began washing his hands, the doctor called over his shoulder, “That’s enough, thank-you Bruce.”

“I’ll wait for the Sentinels, if it’s all the same.” Bruce replied.

“Of course. Let them in.”

Bruce moved across the infirmary and opened the swinging double-doors. Coulson, Calvin Klein, and the others made their way back into the room. Calvin took one look at Clint, lying quiet and docile on the mattress, before he chuckled to himself.

“Submission looks good on him.”

“Be quiet, Ward.” Coulson said, an edge to his voice. Ward shrugged, seemingly unaffected by the reprimand.

Clint listened to their conversation with only half an ear—it was uninteresting, unimportant. Then, the strangest thing began to happen. The warm tide of apathy and comfort in which he had been floating began to recede, and unwelcome reality rose up to take its place. Clint stiffened from head to toe as he realized what had happened, and then he was on his feet a moment later.

“You _sonofabitch!”_ Clint screamed, horror and mortification combining to spread a flush across his face. Bruce had the grace to look abashed, but Clint didn’t care. He tensed from head to toe, ready to pummel the shit out of the older man, when Coulson stepped forward. The agent grasped Clint by the shoulders, giving him a sharp shake.

“Clint, that’s enough.” He commanded. Clint stared at him in shock, taken aback as much by the hands on his body as by the tone of Coulson’s voice. His white-hot anger slowly drained away, and in its place was a confusing swell of emotions that Clint could not understand—there was shame and cringing embarrassment, which made no sense, and beneath it all was a bone-deep desire to capitulate, to soothe away the disapproval on Coulson’s face.

He shifted away from the agent, suddenly feeling vulnerable and uncertain. It was all that he could do to keep from ducking his head. Coulson stared at him for a long moment, before he sighed.

“Go get dressed, Clint.”

For the second time that day, Clint confused himself by obeying the agent without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** Be forewarned, next chapter slides very firmly into Clint Barton/Phil Coulson territory. It will contain explicit sexual content, non-consensual (albeit enthusiastic) intercourse, and emotional hurt/comfort. If non-con is not your cup of tea, then this is your stop. Everyone else, full steam ahead.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note** Thank-you all so much for your continued support! All of my writing has been in less active fandoms, and I am gobsmacked at the number of subscriptions/bookmarks/kudos this story has garnered in such a short time. Seriously, you guys are wonderful. I so appreciate your support.
> 
>  **Chapter Warnings** : This chapter contains explicit sexual content that is highly dubious in terms of consent. Proceed with caution.

Clint shut the bathroom door behind him, and then crossed the small space to grasp the edge of the sink. He sucked in a sharp breath, and then another, before he felt capable of looking into the mirror. His face was pale and blotchy in the harsh florescent light. He stared at himself for a long moment, trying to make sense of what had just happened. He could almost feel Coulson’s hands on his body, solid and firm. The thought sent a shiver down his spine, confusing him as much as his uncharacteristic submission.

He turned on the taps, and splashed cold water onto his face. He stood there for a moment longer, hands white-knuckled on the edge of the sink and eyes squeezed closed, before he pushed away. He glanced around the small room, looking for his clothing. To his consternation, he saw that his clothes had been removed and a neatly folded pile of off-white linens had been left in its place. A quick investigation found that he had been left a long-sleeved shirt and loose pants, nondescript except for the DSGA emblem stitched onto each item, and a pair of hospital booties. Clint grimaced deeply. They hadn’t even left him a pair of boxers, the bastards.

Clint pulled on the clothing as quickly as possible, doing his best not to dwell on the feeling of starchy cotton against his body. He stared at the booties for a long while, but eventually he slipped them onto his bare feet. Then, steeling himself as much as he was able in the face of the violation that he had endured, Clint opened the bathroom door. The female physician had disappeared, as had Agent Ward. Coulson was speaking lowly with the older doctor, his expression serious and reserved. The two unfamiliar Sentinels stood near the exit, and they straightened to attention as Clint stepped out of the bathroom.

“White’s not really my color.” Clint remarked dryly, plucking his shirt with forefinger and thumb, “Got anything in black?”

Coulson didn’t smile, not exactly, but his expression warmed minutely.

“I’m afraid not. It’s standard issue for all newly acquired assets.” He replied.

“I’m an asset, now?” Clint repeated, sarcasm edging his tone as he padded across the clinic.

“As a Guide, you are a Tower asset, certainly.” Coulson replied.

Before Clint could reply, the doors to the clinic opened and the woman from the parking lot stepped into the room. She looked the same as Clint remembered, dressed in a form-fitting body suit without a single hair out of place. She strode towards him, her hands clasped loosely at the small of her back.

“Alpha Guide.” Coulson greeted her politely.

“Agent Coulson.” She replied, looking Clint over from head to toe before glancing towards the Sentinel, “Is he ready to go?”

“Yes ma’am.”

The woman nodded crisply, before turning back to Clint. “Hello Clint, we haven’t been properly introduced. My name is Maria Hill, I am the Alpha Guide here at the Tower.”

Clint frowned at her faintly. He had no idea what an Alpha Guide was, but he could deduce its importance from the deference that she was afforded by the Sentinels. He folded his arms loosely over his chest and affected his best impression of nonchalance.

“Pleasure to meet you.” He replied wryly, “It’s a nice place you’ve got here. Everyone’s been very hospitable.”

Hill raised an eyebrow, evidentially unimpressed by his posturing. She continued as though he had not spoken.

“As Alpha Guide of this territory, it is my privilege and responsibility to induct new Guides into the Division of Sentinel and Guide Affairs.” She paused before continuing, “As a renegade, I understand that you have limited knowledge of our intake procedures or the process of what follows.”

“Renegade, huh?” Clint repeated, “Sounds racy.”

“It’s not.” She returned flatly, “If you will please come with me, I will show you to your temporary quarters.”

Hill turned on her heel and started towards the clinic doors. Coulson stepped towards him, gesturing for Clint to follow behind her. Unable to see an alternative, Clint obeyed. Coulson fell into step beside him, and together they made their way out of the clinic and back down the long, featureless hallway. The two unknown Sentinels that had been guarding the door followed behind them as soon as they passed.

As they walked, Guide Hill spoke to him over her shoulder.

“Since you have been remanded to the Tower, as opposed to your birth territory, it is our responsibility to see you through your bonding. Do you know what that entails?”

Clint could not keep the moue of distaste off his face. He had been able to find precious little information about the fate of Guides after they were taken into the custody of the DSGA. Most of what he knew was hearsay and conjecture. After a moment, he forced himself to reply, “No.”

Guide Hill nodded, as though this information came as no surprise, “Most Guides who come to us are pre-pubescent, of course, so your experience will differ markedly from the norm. If you had turned yourself in when you first presented, you would have been raised in the Tower of your birth territory. There you would have been given both a generalized education, as well as training specific to your latent abilities. Once you reached adulthood, you would have begun the process of finding a suitable Sentinel.”

“And what if bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, eighteen-year-old me didn’t like any of the Sentinels that I met?” He asked flatly, his heart starting to beat faster in his chest.

Hill frowned faintly as she pressed the elevator call button.

“Bonded pairs are chosen based on their biological compatibility.”

Clint scoffed at her, “Chosen by who?”

“The Matchmaker.” She replied as the doors slid open. She stepped into the elevator, and Clint followed behind her. Coulson and the two Sentinels took their positions a respectable distance away from the Alpha Guide.

“The Matchmaker.” Clint repeated, derision in his voice. It sounded like the name of a cheesy 90s gameshow, “What if I don’t like who they choose?”

Hill shrugged. “Interpersonal compatibility is sometimes immediate, but sometimes it doesn’t come until after the bond has been forged.” 

Clint’s heart was beating faster now. He could understand what it was that she wasn’t saying directly—he would bond with whomever the Tower chose, regardless of whether Clint consented to the match. He clenched and unclenched his hands, his fight-or-flight instincts screaming at him to _do something_ , but there was nothing that he could do. Before he could reply, the elevator doors slid open, revealing a hallway that would not have been out of place in an upscale hotel. The carpet was dark and plush, and it contrasted tastefully with the cream wallpaper and ivory wainscoting.

Guide Hill stepped out of the elevator, walking briskly down the hallway. Coulson gestured meaningfully to him, and Clint followed after her a moment later. She stopped in front of a nondescript door, placing her hand onto the biometrics scanner set into the wall. The machine chirped and flashed green, and then there was an electronic sound as the locking mechanism disengaged. Hill pushed open the door, and stepped into the room beyond. Clint moved into the doorway, cautious and on guard, before stopping in his tracks. The room within was a palace. The door led them into a large living area, with plush seating, tasteful decorations, and a large flat-screen television affixed to the wall above an honest-to-God fireplace. There were several doors leading away from the main room, most of which were closed.

Clint turned to look at Hill, before blurting incredulously, “What is this, the Ritz fucking Carlton?”

She pinned him with a disapproving stare as she moved further into the room, “The bonding experience is a beautiful thing—a gift, to both Sentinels and Guides. The bonding rooms reflect that.”

The wistful honesty in her voice rankled him, and he replied coldly, “It’s rape, plain and simple.”

Clint felt, rather than saw, the reaction that his words caused. _Disapproval-shock-anger_ rippled from the two unknown Sentinels, who stood stiffly by the door. He turned to pin them with a narrow-eyed glare.

“Don’t like it? Then don’t fuck someone without their consent.”

“You are grossly misinformed.” Hill interrupted before either Sentinel could reply, “Your ignorance, although understandable, is not acceptable.”

There was the faintest edge of anger in her voice, and it was like a balm for Clint’s soul. He crossed his arms over his chest, quirking up an eyebrow as he goaded her, “I’m ignorant, am I? Then I suppose my refusal to bond with any of your Sentinels will be respected.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Hill snapped, the anger unmistakable in her voice now. All at once, Clint was tired—tired of their back-and-forth, tired of the fear that had been his constant companion since the café, just… tired. He turned away from the Alpha Guide, walking across the room and dropping down onto the plush sectional sofa.

“I don’t give a shit who you choose.” He said, matter-of-factly, “I’m not bonding with anyone.”

“You don’t have a choice, Clint.” She replied tightly, “You will do as you’re told.”

Clint leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees and lacing his fingers together.

“And if I don’t?” He challenged quietly.

Hill visibly calmed herself before she replied, and when she spoke, her voice was ice-cold, “You’re tired. Clearly, you should get some rest. Someone will bring your evening meal shortly.”

Without another word, she turned on her heel and strode out of the room. Coulson glanced in his direction for a fraction of a second, and then he followed behind her. The two Sentinels that stood on either side of the entryway slipped into the hall as soon as he passed, shutting the door behind them. After a moment, the locking mechanism audibly engaged, and Clint was alone. He was on his feet in an instant, pacing back and forth over the woven rug. He struggled to keep his breathing even, despite the way his heart was lodged painfully in his throat. He had been in some tough situations in the past, but he had never been so thoroughly and completely _fucked_ before in his life.

Clint took a deep breath, and then he fell back onto what he did best: recon. He walked over to the nearest side table, waist-high and made of mahogany, probably worth more than Clint had made in the last six weeks. He pulled open the drawer, noted that it was empty, and then moved onto the writing desk. The desk was also empty, devoid of paper or writing implements—honestly, Clint wouldn’t have objected to a letter opener, right about now. He glanced at the lamp, before turning it over and running his fingers over the base. Nothing.

Next, Clint went to the first of three doors that lined the large living area. It was a closet, completely bare except for three heavy-looking coat hangers that were affixed to the bar. The next door revealed a large bedroom, a fact that made Clint’s stomach cramp with anxiety. The king-sized bed with neatly made with sky-blue bedding. A cursory examination of the dresser (empty) and the closet (empty, except for additional linens) revealed nothing of tactical value. As Clint moved back towards the living room, he could not prevent himself from glancing back at the bed. He stared at it for a long moment, and then he stepped out of the room and shut the door behind him. The third door led to a large and tidy bathroom with both a soaker tub and an open air shower. Clint grimaced at the unnecessary opulence, before stepping towards the toilet. He tried to pull the cover off the tank, but it was securely fastened. A glance at the sink revealed that the plumbing was hidden behind a marble surround. Even the showerhead was eight feet in the air—Clint wasn’t getting ahold of it without a chair.

He walked back into the living room, padding towards the side table. He ran his hands over its four thin legs, and then lifted it a foot into the air. Solid, but movable. If push came to shove, it could be broken down and the legs could be improvised as a weapon. Clint made his way towards the sofa, sitting down and holding his head in his hands. He knew that no amount of broken furniture in the world would prevent his bonding. He wasn’t getting out of this room until it was finished.

Clint scrubbed a palm over his face, and then his eyes settled on the remote control sitting on the coffee table. He picked it up, and turned on the television. To his mingled vexation and amusement, Clint found that he had access to over two hundred channels, including the premium movie channels.

 _No expenses spared in the bonding suite._ Clint thought to himself, wryly. He pulled off the booties and stretched out on the sofa, proceeding to flip through the channels. The sound of canned laughter and soundtracks and simulated gunfire was incongruous in the extreme, but it was better than empty silence.

It was approximately three sit-coms later that the door to his suite unlocked with a loud buzz. Clint was on his feet before the door fully opened, tension already gathering in his shoulders. He could see two unfamiliar-looking agents in the hallway, wearing dark suits and earpieces, but his attention was drawn towards the man who stepped into the apartment. He was an elderly gentleman, his dark skin contrasting handsomely with his snow-white hair. Although he looked unassuming in his charcoal cardigan and plain slacks, Clint knew better than to judge a Tower agent by their appearances.

“Good evening, Clint. My name is Jerome Streiten. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

The man’s voice was deep and smooth as honey. Clint stared back at him warily, alert for any empathic manipulation—he had learned his lesson the hard way from Banner. Streiten made his way into the apartment, hands in his pockets. Everything about his appearance was non-threatening, from his business-casual attire, to his neatly groomed facial hair, to his open, friendly expression. As he approached, Clint took a step backwards.

Streiten stopped in his tracks, his features smoothing into a contrite expression.

“I understand this must be very difficult for you. I’m sure that you have questions.”

“Who are you?” Clint replied immediately.

Streiten smiled understandingly, “I’m the Tower’s Matchmaker. Before that, I was a Guide and a physician.”

Clint stiffened, staring at man in distrust. Streiten readily returned his gaze, seemingly unaffected by his hostility.

“I’m here to talk you through the next few days and to answer any questions that you might have.” Streiten said, circling around the coffee table to sit on the sofa that Clint had occupied moments before. He gestured to the opposite cushion, “Please, take a seat.”

“I’ll stand.” Clint returned flatly.

“As you wish.” He replied, “What do you know about the bonding process?”

“I know enough.” Clint said, “I’m not going to cooperate.”

“Do you know why the Guide Act of 1954 was passed?” Streiten asked, surprising him by the apparent non-sequitur.

Clint frowned faintly.

“The birthrates for viable Guides dropped in the aftermath of the Great Wars.”

“That’s correct. There are fewer than two Guides born for every forty Sentinels—and fewer still that readily present themselves upon manifesting their abilities.”

“That sounds like a whole lot of not my problem.”

“What function does a Guide serve? Do you know?”

“What is this?” Clint demanded, “I’m not here for a history lesson.”

“A Guide can stabilize a Sentinel, enhancing their abilities and ensuring they don’t zone. A zone occurs when a Sentinel hyper-focuses on a single sense, for example, the sight of dew glinting on the grass, or the sound of a baby crying four blocks away.” Streiten explained, as though Clint had not spoken, “A bonded Guide can do even more, enhancing a Sentinel’s abilities to preternatural states, making them more efficient and effective.” Streiten paused, interlacing his fingers as his expression became grim, “Sentinels and Guides were meant to bond with one another, they are two parts to a whole. Without a bond, Sentinels eventually lose control of their faculties, succumbing to all manner of physical and mental illnesses. Unbonded Sentinels over fifty years of age account for the single largest suicide demographic.”

Clint narrowed his eyes at the man, “That’s very sad, but in no way does it justify forced bondings and the denaturalization of American citizens.”

“Would it surprise you to know that I agree with you?” Streiten asked honestly, “I am a vocal opponent of denaturalization of bonded Guides—and not just because I am one. I believe that Sentinels and Guides are equals in their relationship, that neither is inherently subservient to the other. Unfortunately, neither the DSGA, Congress, nor the Senate share my views.”

“Well, I am thrilled to hear that the man who is going to choose the Sentinel I’ll bond with is against forced bondings. Really, it’s an enormous comfort.”

Streiten smiled, causing the skin around his eyes to crinkle.

“I don’t choose the Sentinel, not really. You do that.”

Clint’s lips pulled down in a frown, but he did not ask for clarification. He could smell the bullshit from a mile away. After an extended silence that edged into uncomfortable, Streiten elaborated, “A bond between a Sentinel and Guide can only occur if the two of them are biologically compatible. The more compatible the pair, the easier the bond is to establish and stabilize. A Sentinel and Guide that are diametrically opposed will not bond, not even under the best circumstances.”

“And?” Clint asked, rapidly losing his patience for the bureaucratic double-speak.

“And I don’t blindly choose a Sentinel for you. Rather, I facilitate a courtship of sorts, between you and a number of compatible Sentinels. It is your biology that will ultimately decide which Sentinel is chosen.”

“Does this bullshit usually fly with new Guides?” Clint asked mildly, “I’m assuming it must be some-what successful, if it’s a part of the welcome speech. Good job on gaslighting and victim-blaming, by the way. That is some top-notch psychological abuse.”

Streiten’s lips twitched, his expression becoming equal parts exasperated and amused.

“Clint, I know this seems—“

“Let me make this very simple for you.” Clint interrupted, finally at the end of his patience, “I am not going to lie back and think of England while a complete stranger rapes me for the better good.”

“Clint.” Streiten admonished, his amusement fading away, “It’s not rape. It’s biology. When you are presented with a compatible Sentinel, the bond will establish itself, given enough time and proximity. The physical expression of that bond is inevitable.”

Clint narrowed his eyes at the man, “’No’ is a complete sentence, Streiten. If you plan on forcing a bond on me, then you’d better be prepared to tie me down. It’s the only way it’s going to happen.”

“That won’t be necessary, Clint.” Streiten said brusquely, pushing himself to his feet, “You are not the first Guide that has opposed a bond, and I daresay that you won’t be the last. There are contingencies in place for such a pairing.”

The Matchmaker walked towards the door, rapping the wood sharply with his knuckles. A moment later, there was the sound of the lock disengaging and then the door opened. One of the agents in the hallway stepped into the apartment, bearing a dinner tray. He walked forward, placing the tray on the coffee table, before turning around and striding out of the suite. Streiten watched him go, and then he pinned Clint with an indecipherable look.

“Get something to eat and try to rest. You’ll meet Agent MacKenzie tomorrow morning.” 

Without waiting for Clint’s reply, Streiten stepped out of the room and shut the door behind him.

* * *

Clint spent the remainder of the evening either restlessly pacing the room or mindlessly channelsurfing. He ignored the meal that was brought for him—he did not trust them not to drug his food—instead drinking water from the tap in the bathroom as required. He dozed off on the couch shortly after midnight, waking up with a start a few hours later. By the time that the morning rolled around, Clint felt like shit, and a cursory look into the bathroom mirror after relieving himself confirmed that he looked like it, too. It was just after seven o’clock when the door to the apartment opened, and another nondescript agent brought him a breakfast tray. When she saw the untouched evening meal, she frowned faintly but took the tray away without comment. Clint knew without looking that his breakfast included bacon, the smell of which wafted appetizingly at him. Although his stomach panged with hunger, Clint resolutely ignored the food.

As promised, Streiten and Agent MacKenzie arrived just before nine o’clock. MacKenzie was an attractive looking black man, lean and fit with an easy smile. Clint stared at him for a long moment, before pinning Streiten with a flat look.

“I’m straight.”

To his surprise, MacKenzie answered him.

“So am I, but that won’t matter once we’ve bonded.” He said, his smile curling wider as he made his way into the apartment.

“No offense, buddy, but over my dead body.”

Clint’s words caused MacKenzie’s eyebrows to knit together concernedly.

“Don’t say that, Clint.” He admonished softly.

To Clint’s consternation, he felt an instinctive desire to soothe the Sentinel, to calm the flurry of _worry-uneasiness_ that had started to leak from his mental presence. It shook Clint to his core, and his words were sharper than he intended when he bit back, “It’s a colloquialism.”

MacKenzie smiled self-deprecatingly as he sat on the edge of the couch, “I’m sorry. I can’t turn off my instincts any more than you can yours. Sentinels are hard-wired to care for Guides.”

As the agent spoke, his eyes flickered to the untouched breakfast tray on the coffee table. Wisely, he did not comment. Instead, MacKenzie began to ask Clint about himself, taking care to keep his questions inoffensive. Clint folded his arms over his chest, pinning him with a narrow-eyed stare from where he leaned against the far wall. His answers were sarcastic, blatant bullshit, or absent all together. Streiten watched their exchange with a neutral but shrewd expression on his face. The way that his eyes moved between Clint and MacKenzie suggested that he missed nothing about their interaction with one another.

For his part, MacKenzie was friendly and polite. He spoke about his time as an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., an acronym with which Clint was not familiar, and then about his time as a C.I.A. operative. By the time that MacKenzie started in on his childhood in Texas, Clint’s temper was running thin.

“Listen, you seem perfectly nice, you do. But this—“ He gestured vaguely but insistently between them, “—is not going to happen.” Clint glanced over at Streiten, “Are we done here?”

MacKenzie stopped speaking mid-sentence, a frown pulling down the corners of his mouth. Streiten pressed his lips together, disapproval written all over his face.

“Don’t be rude, Clint. It’s unnecessary and counterproductive.”

“I think it’s exactly necessary.” Clint replied sardonically, “I’ve said a lot worse, believe me.”

To his surprise, Streiten seemed to consider his reply before nodding tersely.

“Very well, I think that’s enough for now. Agent MacKenzie, if you would please?” The Guide extended his arm towards the door. MacKenzie nodded as he stood, walking towards the entrance. He paused, halfway to the door, before subtly scenting the air. The sight made Clint bristle—it was simultaneously invasive and offensive.

MacKenzie seemed to understand Clint’s reaction, for he smiled contritely, “My apologies, Clint. Your scent is… distinctive. I hope we can speak again soon.”

Clint didn’t reply, instead watching in silence as both MacKenzie and Streiten left the apartment. Streiten returned a little over an hour later with another agent, a middle-aged Asian woman by the name of Agent May. She was reserved and not prone to idle chatter, which meant that the conversation was stilted and short-lived. Streiten dismissed her after twenty minutes, and he left the apartment only after admonishing Clint to eat something.

It was almost eleven o’clock when Streiten returned with Agent Ward. The sight of the man strolling into the apartment with an easy-going smile on his face, as though he hadn’t played a significant part of Clint’s current predicament, incensed him.

“Get out.” Clint snapped.

“Come on, Clint. It wasn’t personal.” Agent Ward replied, arms spread wide in an effort to appease, “I had a job to do.”

Clint turned to look at Streiten and said, with sincere conviction, “Not a fucking chance.”

“Hey.” Ward protested, offended, “That’s not your call.”

Clint didn’t deign to answer him, instead staring at Streiten expectantly. To his abject fury, the Matchmaker gestured for Ward to take a seat. What followed was the most hostile, uncomfortable, one-sided interview that Clint had ever experienced—and he’d once interviewed at a slaughterhouse. When Ward tried to approach him shortly thereafter, Clint tensed in preparation for a fight. It was only then that Streiten intervened, calling the session to an end with an air of aggrieved irritation.

He was left alone for the better part of two hours before the door opened again. Clint pushed himself to his feet, mentally bracing himself for another round, when Agent Coulson walked through the door. Clint’s eyebrows rose in surprise at the sight of him, carrying a cafeteria tray with an affable expression on his face. Coulson moved further into the room, placing the tray on the coffee table with one hand as he glanced in Clint’s direction.

“How long do you plan on starving yourself?”

Clint snorted, folding his arms over his chest as he sat on the arm of the couch, “I’m not starving myself, I just don’t trust you.”

Coulson looked at him for a long moment and then shrugged, picking up a fork as he moved to sit on the couch. The agent speared a piece of chicken, before popping it into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed, before replying, “If we wanted to drug you, we’d use gas fed through the air conditioning system. It’s odorless and fast-acting, you’d be unconscious in thirty seconds.”

For some reason, Clint did not doubt the man’s sincerity. He huffed quietly, accepting the fork that Coulson extended towards him. The agent pushed the tray across the coffee table, and Clint accepted it without comment. He noted that roast chicken and mixed vegetables were on the menu, before starting in on the meal. Coulson watched him in silence, a bland but affable expression on his face. As Clint finished the last of his lunch, the agent leaned back against the sofa.

“You were a survivalist.” He stated, apropos of nothing. Clint glanced at him in surprise.

“For a while.”

“What did that entail? Stalking game, trapping, plant identification?”

Clint stared at him for a long moment, trying to figure out his angle, “All of the above.”

“What’s the furthest kill shot you’ve managed?”

The corner of Clint’s lips quirked up, “Trying to figure out how much of a head start you’re going to need once this is all over?”

Coulson’s eyes warmed as he laughed softly, “Not quite.”

“500 yards, give or take. It was a Pronghorn in North Dakota.” Clint answered slowly.

“That’s an impressive shot.”

Clint huffed to himself. The agent didn’t know the half of it—it had been raining like a son of a bitch, the kind of rain that comes in sideways. The terrain was shit, visibility was poor. If it hadn’t been for his hawk, Clint wouldn’t have been able to make the shot. Rather than divulge this information, however, Clint raised one shoulder in a shrug.

“What’s the furthest you’ve ever stalked an animal?” Coulson asked, and this time Clint frowned at him.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Professional curiosity.”

Clint mulled over the agent’s reply for a long while, before answering, “I stalked a mule deer for thirty miles once.”

Coulson’s eyebrows drifted closer to his hairline, “How long did that take?”

“Seven hours or so.”

“Did you get the shot, in the end?”

“I did. Longbow at 400 yards.” Clint replied. Although his voice was carefully neutral, he could not deny the swell of pride at the memory. It had been one of his best takedowns, a clean shot through the heart. The venison had been excellent.

“That would be an exceptional shot.”

Clint glanced at him, suddenly defensive, “That wasn’t a brag, it was a fact.”

“I believe you.” Coulson answered, and Clint was taken aback by the sincerity in his voice. Unsettled, Clint tossed the fork onto the now-empty plate, and pinned the agent with a flat stare.

“Thanks for the dinner company, but I’m finished.”

Coulson’s eyebrows quirked up, “I didn’t come to deliver your meal, Clint.”

He was confused for less than the space of a heartbeat, and then understanding dawned on him—Coulson was his next appointment. Clint’s face flushed with anger as he stood up, “Are you shitting me right now?”

Coulson’s gaze was mild as he returned Clint’s heated glare, “I thought you knew.”

“Where’s Streiten?”

“He’s nearby. He thought it might be easier if he supervised remotely.”

“Of course he did.” Clint sneered, trying to mask his disquiet. He had eaten a meal in front of the man, had been talking to him for the better part of half-an-hour, all without any inkling of trouble. What the fuck was wrong with him? His instincts were usually sharper than this.

“Would you prefer I leave?” Coulson asked, direct and to the point.

Clint was blindsided by the swell of near-desperate refusal that rose up within him. With substantial effort, he quashed it down and narrowed his eyes at the man.

“Yes.”

Coulson stood up, smoothing and buttoning his suit jacket in one fell motion. He reached forward, picking the tray up off the coffee table.

“As you wish.” He said, moving towards the door. He knocked on the solid wood, before glancing back at Clint, “I’d like to hear more about that longbow shot sometime—sounds like a good story.”

Clint didn’t reply, and a moment later, Coulson was gone. He exhaled slowly through his mouth, feeling weak-kneed and unsteady. All at once, he decided to shower, as though soap and warm water would wash the agent’s influence away. He made his way into the bathroom, pulling a towel out from the cubby beneath the sink, before he stripped down and stepped into the shower. He was quick and precise with his movements, scrubbing with perhaps more force than strictly necessary. By the time that he stepped out of the bathroom less than ten minutes later, shivering and still dripping water, he felt marginally more in control of himself.

To Clint’s surprise, he was left to his own devices for the rest of the afternoon. He sat on the couch, in the same spot that Coulson had occupied earlier, and flipped through the channels. He settled on a re-run of _Outdoor Adventures_ , and after the better part of an hour, Clint felt more like himself. An agent brought his dinner just after six o’clock that evening, but otherwise he was left alone. Clint ate the meal methodically, not bothering to enjoy what was very likely a five star dining experience. When he finished, he kicked back onto the couch and picked up the remote. He didn’t even make it through the basic channels before the door to his suite opened.

Clint pushed himself to his feet, and then tensed from head to toe as Streiten and Coulson made their way into the apartment. His heart started beating faster in his chest—he knew without being told what their appearance signified. Coulson was dressed more casually than last Clint saw him, wearing a dark collared shirt and slacks. He carried a go-bag in one hand and a canister of water in the other.

“No.” Clint snapped, “I’m not doing this.”

“You and Agent Coulson are fully compatible.” Streiten replied, his tone brooking no argument, “It’s already done.” 

Clint took a step backwards. His breath was coming faster now, as his pulse thundered in his ears. Coulson dropped the go-bag by the door, but he made no move to push further into the room.

“The room is being monitored. If you require assistance—or if you attempt to engage in physical violence—then agents will be dispatched. Do you understand?”

Clint stared at him, unable to reply. He was wracked with helpless anger, disbelief, and fear in equal measures. Streiten looked at him for a long moment, and then he nodded to Coulson.

“I wish you a good bonding, agent.”

“Thank-you.” Coulson replied, never taking his eyes off Clint. Streiten stepped back through the open door, which was sealed shut a moment later, leaving Coulson and Clint alone. The agent’s eyes traveled up and down his body, and then he sighed.

“If it matters, I’m sorry, Clint. I know you don’t want this.”

“Then don’t do it.” He managed, voice tight.

“I promise that I won’t touch you. Not until you ask me.” Coulson replied, moving to sit on the couch.

Clint sneered at him, crossing his arms over his chest, “Can I get that in writing, Coulson?”

“Phil.” He replied, leaning forward to grab the remote.

“What?” Clint asked, confused.

“My name is Phil. Phil Coulson.” He explained, navigating to HGTV and then tossing the remote onto the sofa beside him.

Clint stared at him incredulously, before demanding, “What are you doing?”

“Watching my show. It’s been a while since I’ve had the chance.” He glanced in Clint’s direction, before motioning towards the television, “Have you ever seen it?”

As far as icebreakers went, it was relatively benign. Clint snorted at him in response.

“I’m not an HGTV fan, sorry.”

Coulson shrugged, seemingly unaffected by the news, “It’s a good show. They renovate a property, and then the family decides whether to stay in the home or sell it and move.”

“Sounds fascinating, Phil.” Clint replied dryly, “It probably holds more appeal for people who’ve lived in one spot for longer than six months at a time.”

Coulson shrugged, conceding the point without argument. He continued to watch the television as Clint paced the room, equal parts uncertain and unnerved. The agent was so damn _calm_ , like this was something ordinary, something benign. They stayed like that for the better part of two hours—measured in increments of _Love It or List It_ and _The Property Brothers_. By the time the credits rolled, Clint was feeling deeply uncomfortable. He was keyed up and restless, as though he’d just come off a hunt, but no amount of pacing relieved the feeling. At the same time, his eyes were hot and dry and the glands in his neck were beginning to itch. For the third time in as many minutes, Clint scrubbed his hand over his face.

It was only after Clint dropped his hand away that he became aware of Coulson’s quiet scrutiny. Although Coulson was facing the television, which had switched to an episode of _House Hunters_ , it was clear that his attention was focused on Clint. The agent was sitting perfectly still, his shoulders taut with a tension that did not show on his face. The sight of it caused anxiety to settle in Clint’s gut.

“What’s happening?” He asked, hollowly.

“We’re imprinting.” Coulson replied.

“Is there any way to make it stop?” Clint asked, unable to mask the desperation in his voice.

Coulson shook his head minutely, and Clint squeezed his eyes closed in response.

“You’ll be less uncomfortable over here.” Coulson suggested, nodding towards the cushion on the opposite end of the couch, “Proximity will help.”

Whether he meant that it would help ease Clint’s symptoms or it would help to quicken the bonding, however, Clint could not say.

“No thanks.” Clint replied tightly. Coulson said nothing else on the matter, seemingly shifting his attention back towards the television. Clint settled into an armchair beside the fireplace, rubbing a hand over his neck as he stared unseeingly at the floor. He was becoming increasingly aware of Coulson’s presence—it was like a gravity well in his mind, pulling Clint’s attention inexorably toward it. Every time the agent shifted against the couch or huffed a breath at something on the television, Clint tensed in response. It took less than an hour for Clint to become truly miserable—his skin felt like it was crawling, while the muscles of his neck and back burned from the tension in his body. The combination was making him faintly nauseous.

“Clint, come here.” Coulson said at last, the faintest edge of _command_ in his tone. It cut straight through him, and Clint found himself pushing to his feet and padding across the room before he had given it any conscious thought. The agent leaned forward as he approached, arms resting lightly on his knees, “Sit down.”

Clint hesitated for only a moment before he settled onto the opposite side of the couch. Coulson looked at him for a long moment, before he reached forward and pulled the water canister off the coffee table, handing it to him one-handed.

“Drink. You’re dehydrated.”

Clint twisted off the cap and took a long drink. The water was cool and refreshing. He re-capped the canister, rubbing the back of his hand over his mouth, and tried to hand it back to the agent. Coulson shook his head.

“Keep it. It’s for you.”

Clint stared at the canister for a long moment, as though it were something insidious or untrustworthy, before he set it onto the floor by his side. They lapsed into silence, both of them staring at the television. Clint could not tell whether Coulson was following the plot of whatever it was that was playing, but he had no clue what was happening on screen. His attention was focused inwards, and he was both confused and dismayed at the way his body was responding to the Sentinel’s proximity. He felt simultaneously keyed up and calm, reassured and distraught. It was a dizzying, wholly unwelcome combination of sensations. It was not long before perspiration began beading at his temples, and Clint made a soft sound of distress in the back of his throat.

Coulson’s attention was on him in an instant, “Clint? Talk to me. How are you doing?”

“This is awful.” He managed through gritted teeth, “Is this normal?”

The agent nodded slowly, “Yes, it is, for some. I can help, if you’ll let me.”

Clint leveled a glare at him, “Don’t fucking try it.”

Coulson raised his hands in a placatory gesture, making no move to approach him, “I said that I wouldn’t touch you without your consent, and I meant it.”

“Good.” Clint snapped.

“Are you hungry? Can I get you anything?” Coulson offered.

“No.” Clint replied, wiping the sweat off his face with the sleeve of his shirt, “It’s hotter than hell in here.”

Coulson grimaced, and it was only then that Clint realized that the Sentinel was sweating as well.

“It’s the bonding heat, I’m afraid.”

“Bonding heat?” Clint repeated disbelievingly, “This is only physiological?” When Coulson nodded, Clint barked a harsh laugh, “Well then, I have major respect for every woman who’s ever gone through menopause, because this is bullshit.”

Coulson didn’t answer him, but the grim expression on his face was reply enough. Clint turned away from him, staring resolutely at the television as though his life depended on it. By the time that the digital clock read 11:34 PM, Clint’s discomfort had edged well into the territory of legitimate pain. He was sweating profusely, his breath coming in shallow pants in and out of his mouth. When he shifted the wrong way, straining the muscles of his back, Clint was forced to choke back a whimper.

“Clint, let me help you.” Coulson urged, concern knitting the space between his eyebrows, “Please.”

Clint stared at him, equal parts terrified and desperate to give in to the Sentinel’s urging. When he did not refuse him, as he had earlier, Coulson cautiously slid across the couch

“Can I touch you, Clint?” He asked softly. This close, Clint was certain that he could feel the heat coming off the agent’s body, mixed with his scent—a familiar and comforting smell, like ripe apples and woodsmoke. Clint stared at him helplessly, unable to articulate the strange, frantic desire welling up in his chest.

“I need to hear you say it.” Coulson managed, and it was only then that Clint realized that his voice was just as wrecked-sounding as Clint felt, “Do you want me to touch you?”

Unable to prevent it any longer, Clint whispered, “Yes.”

Coulson’s expression became awash with relief, and he reached out a hand to stoke the side of Clint’s face. As soon as his fingers brushed against Clint’s skin, he gasped in response, leaning into the touch. Coulson’s eyes sharpened knowingly, and he brought up both hands to clasp Clint’s face. Clint sighed in relief, the simple touch serving to sooth the strange restless energy that had tormented him for hours. Coulson’s fingers trailed over Clint’s face, brushing over his eyebrows, nose, chin, and cheeks, as though he were a blind man reading the braille of Clint’s body. The agent rubbed his thumb over Clint’s lower lip, almost reverently.

Then, the agent leaned in, slowly and cautiously, as though giving Clint the opportunity to protest or pull away. When he did neither, Coulson tucked his nose into the side of Clint’s neck and inhaled slowly, scenting him. Unable to help himself, Clint ducked down and breathed in the smell of him—sweat, and musk, and something intangible that pulled at Clint like a siren’s song.

“Do you want to take off your shirt?” Coulson asked, his words barely more than a murmur. Some small part of Clint protested, but it was overshadowed by the sudden, choking desire to be as close to Coulson—to Phil—as possible. Without a word, Clint reached down and grabbed the hem of his shirt, pulling it off over his head and dropping it onto the floor.

Coulson inhaled sharply, his eyes darkening at the sight of him. He trailed his hands down the side of Clint’s neck, brushing over the skin of his chest with the pads of his fingertips. Clint’s breath was coming faster now, shallow and quick through his mouth. When Coulson’s fingers brushed over his nipple, causing the flesh to pebble in response, Clint was unable to suppress the whimper that stuttered out of him.

Coulson groaned softly at the sound, his head pitching forward as he screwed his eyes closed. After a long moment, he rasped, “Clint, can I?”

“Yes.” Clint replied, before he choked out, “Phil, please.”

Coulson’s eyes snapped open, finding Clint’s face in an instant. Although the agent’s expression was tumultuous, Clint instinctively understood the burning desire, the covetousness, and _possessiveness_ that he saw there. Without another word, Coulson leaned forward, capturing a nipple in his mouth. Clint gasped sharply as the agent sucked the hardened flesh, nibbling it gently with his teeth as he teased its twin with his fingers. Clint felt familiar heat begin to pool in his groin, and he was mortified to realize that his cock was thickening in response. The loose pants that he had been given did nothing to hide his growing arousal, and Clint knew that it would not be long before the agent became aware of his condition. He covered his face in abject mortification, a hot blush spreading all the way to his hairline.

“It’s alright.” Coulson soothed, seemingly aware of Clint’s inner turmoil, “You’re doing so well.”

He punctuated his words by laving his tongue across one nipple, as he twisted the other with just enough pressure to hurt. Clint groaned softly, tossing his head back to collide with the arm of the couch. They stayed there like that, as Coulson worked him over with lips and teeth and tongue, until the agent stilled. Coulson glanced up and made eye contact with him, before palming Clint’s erection with one hand. Clint moaned, pitching his head forward as he pushed up into Coulson’s hands.

“Take off your pants, Clint.” Coulson urged, without a hint of _command_ in his voice, “It’s time.”

Clint was too far gone to object, lost to the burning haze of his bonding heat and a flood of his own hormones. He reached for his pants, pulling them down over his hips before kicking them away. Coulson stared at him for a long moment, eyes trailing from his bare chest to his weeping erection, before he stood up and crossed the room. Clint keened softly at the loss, but he was back again a moment later. The agent stripped quickly—he was lean and fit, with dark nipples and fine brown hair that trailed down his abdomen, thickening again at his pubic area. He was also fully erect, Clint noted with a sense of smug satisfaction that confused him.

“Have you ever had anal sex?” Coulson asked, voice rough, lifting Clint’s legs as he spread them apart.

“No.” He replied honestly, and Coulson nodded in response.

“I’m going to use my fingers to prepare you.” He explained, “Try to relax.” With that, the agent uncapped a bottle of personal lubricant, drizzling some over Clint’s cock, his crack, and then over his own fingers. Coulson took him in one hand, stroking him lightly from root to crown.

“Jesus!” Clint swore, “ _Fuck!_ ”

Coulson’s expression warmed in amusement. He stroked Clint slowly, teasingly, until he was writhing against the cushions, gasping in desperation. Then, he stroke the tip of one finger over Clint’s tight hole. Clint was too far gone to remember why he should be fighting—too far gone to remember that he didn’t want this. Instead, he canted his hips, desperate for more. A moment later, Coulson’s finger breached his body, sinking in to the second knuckle. It was a strange feeling, a fullness and stretch that Clint hadn’t expected. Coulson thrust his finger several times, letting Clint’s body adjust, before he added a second digit. He began thrusting his fingers in time to the hand that was stroking Clint’s dick, and the combination was shockingly pleasurable. Clint tossed his head back as his toes curled against the carpet.

“I’m getting close.” He choked out, and Coulson immediately stilled. He stayed there for a long while, fingers in Clint’s ass and hand on his dick, as Clint calmed down. It was only after he had backed away from the edge of orgasm that Coulson added more lubricant to Clint’s asshole. A moment later, a third finger breached Clint’s body. The stretch was more now, just this side of painful, and Clint grunted in response. Coulson glanced up at him, and then he began stroking Clint’s cock again. Once Clint relaxed, hands clutching the edge of the couch cushions in a white-knuckled grip, Coulson began to thrust with his fingers. The agent worked him thoroughly, scissoring him open a little at a time, until Clint was openly moaning. Then, he crooked his fingers up, brushing against something inside of him that sent white-hot pleasure straight to Clint’s cock.

“ _Ohmygod_ ,” Clint groaned loudly, “That feels, _fuck_ , it feels so good.”

“On your hands and knees, Clint.” The agent urged, removing his fingers from Clint’s body and placing a hand on one hip to guide him over. After a moment, he found himself in the lordosis position, face pressed into the couch with his ass in the air. Coulson moved behind him, smoothing a hand down Clint’s back. A moment later, he felt the blunt tip of Coulson’s erection pressing against his loosened hole. Clint tensed instinctually at the unfamiliar sensation, but Coulson murmured at him soothingly, rubbing his palms over Clint’s back and thighs until he relaxed. Then, the agent began to press inexorably into him.

Clint gasped as Coulson’s cock sank into his body, inch by inch. It was nothing like his fingers had been—this was fullness and pressure and _sensation_ , in a way that took Clint’s breath away. A moment later, Coulson bottomed out, his hips pressing into the meat of Clint’s ass. The only sound in the room was their combined panting, loud and desperate.

“Brace yourself.” Coulson urged, pulling out and thrusting back in. He thrust several times, and then he angled Clint’s hips just so. His next thrust caught Clint square in the prostate, and he moaned loudly in response. Coulson gripped him tightly, and then he began to thrust in earnest. The Sentinel set a punishing pace, snapping his hips forward as he pulled Clint back onto his cock. Clint writhed and moaned, lost to the pleasure that burst through him with every stroke of his prostate. Above him, Coulson’s breathing became more erratic.

“Clint.” He moaned, guttural and desperate.

“Please.” Clint panted, “Coulson— _Phil_ —please, please, I’m so close. You feel so good, _please_ , more!”

Coulson obliged him, fucking him ruthlessly into the couch. Clint gasped and keened, and then, as Coulson hit his prostate again, he bucked up and wailed, coming so hard that he saw stars. Coulson growled, low in his throat, and then he leaned over Clint’s back to sink his teeth in the junction of his neck and shoulder. Clint gasped in shock, but the pain was washed away in the last shudders of his orgasm. A moment later, Coulson thrust deeply into him, and then warmth flooded his insides as the Sentinel came in him.

As Clint collapsed onto the sofa, gasping as though he had just run a six-minute mile, he became aware of a _tugging_ sensation inside of his mind. The sensation deepened, and then all at once, Coulson was inside of his head. He could feel the echo of the Sentinel’s orgasm, followed quickly by shock and then a fierce swell of joy.

“Hello.” Coulson murmured, nuzzling into the side of Clint’s neck.

Clint squeezed his eyes closed, unable to deny the feeling of _completeness_ that swept through him, as though the last piece of a puzzle had slotted neatly into place.

“Hello.” He replied, breathlessly, and Coulson kissed him between the shoulder blades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next Chapter** : Clint and Coulson deepen their connection through physical contact. Once their bond stabilizes and his heat abates, Clint comes to realize the full extent of what has happened to him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note** : I apologize for the long time since my last update. This is a shorter chapter to gauge whether anyone's still interested in and/or reading this story. 
> 
> **Chapter Warning** : Explicit sexual content of highly dubious consent.

Phil settled behind him, arranging them so they lay side-by-side. Clint’s sides heaved as he struggled to catch his breath. The whole while, Phil pressed soft kisses against the nape of Clint’s neck, his hands stroking down his flanks. The touch was firm and soothing, as one might gentle a nervous horse. The thought caused Clint’s lips to twist in dark humor.

_Ridden hard and put away wet._

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Clint felt a sharp flare of concern. He shuddered in response—the feeling of Phil inside his head was at once invasive and perfect. It was a dizzying contradiction. The other man shifted against his back, dropping a hand down to gently squeeze his hip.

“Are you alright?” He murmured against the shell of Clint’s ear.

“That’s an awfully bold question to ask while your cock is still in my ass.” Clint replied flatly.

His words were met with a confusing mixture of _consternation-amusement_ that Clint couldn’t readily interpret. Phil pressed an apologetic kiss into the curve of Clint’s shoulder, and then he pulled out of him. Clint grimaced at the feeling of loss, and of the slick wetness inside him. He loved it and he hated it, and the conflicting feelings spurred him to push himself into a sitting position. Clint’s ass and his shoulder ached with pain, and he was covered in sweat and semen and lube. He shuddered from head to toe, and clambered to his feet.

“What are you doing?” Coulson asked concernedly.

“I’m going to have a shower.” Clint replied tersely.

Phil’s eyebrows drew together, a frown turning down the corners of his mouth.

“I’ll come with you.” He said, pushing himself to his feet.

Clint’s shoulders drew up with tension, but he did not reply. Phil was his Sentinel now, he would do with Clint as he liked. The thought made his heart beat faster in his chest, spurring him to stride—awkwardly, and with a grimace on his face—into the bathroom. He could hear Coulson following behind him, slowly, as though he were giving him a wide berth. Clint pulled open the linen closet, revealing two shelves of neatly folded towels. He grabbed the first one he saw, it was soft and plush and probably cost more than his weekly grocery budget, and then he pushed the door shut behind him. He made his way over to the shower, turning it on with one hand and tossing the towel onto the counter behind him. By the time that he stepped into the hot spray, Coulson had entered the bathroom. The Sentinel was watching him closely, almost warily, as Clint pulled the nearest bottle from the alcove set into the shower wall. He squeezed a palm-sized dollop of rich-smelling soap onto the same cloth that he’d used earlier, and began scrubbing himself. He worked mechanically, trying to scour the last hour off his skin. His world narrowed down to the feeling of terrycloth against his body.

“Clint, stop.”

A restraining hand settled against Clint’s arm, causing him to flinch. The Sentinel had stepped into the shower behind him, standing only scant inches away. When Clint stilled, Phil slid his hand down Clint’s arm, and gently pried the cloth from between his fingers. 

“Look at you.” Phil murmured. Clint glanced down at himself, and grimaced at the sight of his skin rubbed red and raw. Before he could reply, Phil stepped close behind him, pressing his chest against Clint’s back from shoulder to groin. The feeling of the other man made Clint go very still. He wanted to push him away, to say something scathing, but he didn’t. As much as he wanted to deny it, the warm press of his body soothed something inside of him—something that he didn’t even know was hurting.

He didn’t move as Coulson drew the soapy cloth across his chest. The Sentinel hummed at him reassuringly as worked, leaving no inch of his skin unattended. When he finished his front, Coulson sidestepped slightly to allow him to clean Clint’s back. He ran the cloth over his shoulders and down his spine. When the cloth dipped lower, Coulson paused. A moment later, his fingers traced the scar that extended from Clint’s hip to his loin.

“What happened?” Phil asked.

Clint had to swallow before he could answer, “I was tracking in Montana. I lost my footing and fell down the ravine.” At his words, Clint could feel the Sentinel’s restless energy, penned up and anxious. A smile curled the corner of his mouth as Clint added, dryly, “Spoiler alert: I survived.” 

Phil made a sound in acknowledgement, not quite a grunt, as he continued washing him. When he was finished with his back, the cloth dipped down to the cleft of Clint’s ass. Clint tensed, turning to catch Phil’s wrist with one hand.

“That’s fine. I got it.”

Phil surrendered the cloth without complaint. As Clint cleaned away the semen and lubricant, Phil reached for the soap. Clint tried to affect an air of indifference, but he could not prevent himself from watching the Sentinel out of the corner of his eye. Although Phil was older than him by over a decade, he was trim and fit. The Sentinel washed himself quickly, perfunctorily drawing the cloth over lean muscles. When he realized that Clint was watching him, his expression grew soft.

“You can touch me, if you want.”

The words had a strange effect on him. His kneejerk reaction was to pull away, make a joke, deflect, but something in him yearned to press his face into the junction of Phil’s neck and shoulder and _scent him_. The conflicting impulses were almost painful in their intensity, and Clint froze with uncertainty. Phil’s face softened in understanding, and he slowly stepped forward. The Sentinel moved with exaggerated care, as though giving Clint the opportunity to protest or move away. When he did neither, Phil pressed against him, chest to chest, and brought one hand to rest against the back of his head. Clint went rigid at the contact, his heart tripping into double-time at the vulnerable position he was in. Phil made a shushing noise, barely audible over the steady drum of water, and with gentle pressure, guided Clint’s head to his shoulder.

They stood there like that for a long moment—Clint’s forehead pressed into Phil’s clavicle, Phil’s fingers carding through his wet hair. Clint breathed sharply through his nose, warring a silent battle as he longed to step away and press closer at the same time. Phil said nothing as Clint struggled to make sense of the strange impulses that he felt. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the tension in Clint’s shoulders began to relax. As tight muscles unclenched, Phil murmured at him approvingly, his other hand coming up to rub Clint’s trapezius. As Clint relaxed under the warm water and the Sentinel’s attention, the urge to press close and _scent_ became undeniable. He struggled against his base instincts for a moment longer, and then he broke. Shuffling forward a half step, Clint angled his head to nuzzle into Phil’s neck. He heard the Sentinel’s sharp inhale, but his attention was focused on the faint scent he could make out through soap and water. It was a homey smell, as though Clint had known it all his life. It was like warm sunshine in late October, like the steam coming off a river at dawn.

Clint made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, and pressed against the Sentinel as closely as he could manage. He dropped the facecloth without a second thought, wrapping his arms around the other man’s shoulders. He could feel Phil’s surprise and approval, as well as his building anticipation. Clint paid no attention to it, instead rubbing his face into the side of his neck, trying to get closer to that smell.

“You’re doing so well, Clint.” Phil praised gently, “Let’s get out of the shower, we can continue this in the bedroom.”

The implications of his words didn’t even register—Clint huffed against the side of his neck in contentment. Without taking his hand off the back of Clint’s head, Phil twisted so that he could turn off the water. As soon as the warm spray disappeared, Phil urged Clint out of the shower with gentle touches. Clint let himself be guided to stand on the bath mat as though in a daze. Phil stepped away long enough to retrieve the towel off the counter, and then he began to dry Clint from head to toe. The Sentinel was meticulous about it, first scrubbing the towel over his head, then drawing it down his chest and arms. Clint didn’t so much as flinch as Phil carefully dried the junction between his legs. When he was satisfied that Clint was dry, he wrapped the towel around his shoulders. It was large and covered Clint down passed his hips. Then, Phil retrieved a second towel from the linen closet. He was a great deal less thorough in drying himself off, and it was only a moment later that he took Clint by the hand and led him to the bedroom.

The large room was just as opulent as the rest of the suite. Although Clint had explored it the day before, he had not stepped foot inside it since. Phil crossed the room, letting go of Clint long enough to turn down the sheets, and then he climbed into bed. Clint followed him, eager to press against the Sentinel again. Phil welcomed him with open arms, arranging them so that they lay pressed chest to chest, before drawing the sheets up to their hips. Clint tucked his nose into the junction of Phil’s neck, and breathed deeply. Now that they were out of the shower, Phil’s scent was richer and more distinctive.

As Clint breathed in the smell of him, Phil seemed intent on his own explorations. The Sentinel drew his hands over Clint’s nose, his cheeks, down his neck. He touched every bare expanse of skin that he could reach. When his fingers ghosted over the skin of his ribs, Clint jerked slightly at the touch.

“Ticklish.” He muttered against Phil’s neck.

He could feel the swell of amusement and delight his words elicited from the other man. Phil continued his tactile exploration of Clint’s body, lingering on every freckle, scar, and mole that he found. Clint quietened under the Sentinel’s attention, his body growing loose and lax the longer they touched. When Phil had explored all that he could from their position, he urged Clint to roll onto his back. Clint keened softly at the loss, but Phil crawled over him to settle in the space between Clint’s legs, his arms bracketing his torso. Once he was comfortable, Phil continued to explore Clint’s body.

Clint found himself returning the Sentinel’s attention, his fingers running over his chest and shoulders, smoothing over his cheekbones and nose and jaw. Phil went still under Clint’s ministrations, his eyes warm and soft. When Clint traced the outline of his lips with the pad of his thumb, Coulson turned his head to catch the digit lightly between his teeth. Clint’s breath hitched as sudden arousal pooled low in his belly.

Phil’s eyes became knowing, and his tongue flicked against the pad of Clint’s thumb. Clint stared at him, almost helplessly, as Phil laved at the digit. He could feel his cock twitch, thickening where it lay pressed between their bellies, even though he had gotten off not even an hour ago. The thought struck him as odd, and it served to pierce the fog of hormones in which he had been drifting.

He pulled away slightly, looking at Coulson with a frown.

“What’s happening?”

Coulson’s brow furrowed in confusion, “We’re bonding.”

Clint made an impatient sound in the back of his throat, “We already bonded. I mean what’s happening right now?”

Coulson’s confusion grew more pronounced, and then understanding suddenly dawned on his face. He slowly pulled away from Clint, giving him a little more space.

“We’re bonding.” He repeated, firmly but gently, “It takes a day or two for the bond to mature, after it forms.”

Clint stared at him as the meaning of his words filtered through his hormone-addled brain. 

“But it’s not… I’m not hot. It doesn’t hurt.” He said, faintly.

“It’s our proximity, it eases the bonding heat. We will couple as often as we’re able until the heat abates.” Phil explained, something of his earlier wariness returning to his features. The way he looked at Clint was sharp and observant, as though looking for any signs of distress or aggression. Clint stared back at him, trying to make sense of the flurry of conflicting feelings inside of him. Something of his uncertainty and trepidation must have shown on his face or through their bond, because Coulson’s eyebrows knit together in concern.

“Are you alright?”

Coulson’s directness caught Clint off-guard, and he surprised himself by answering candidly.

“I can’t decide whether I want to hit you or fuck you.”

Phil’s mouth twitched up in amusement.

“I’d prefer the latter, if it’s all the same.”

“I’m sure you would.” Clint replied dryly.

Phil looked at him searchingly, before shifting his weight onto one elbow. He presented his hand, palm up, for Clint’s inspection.

“May I touch you?” He asked softly.

“You’ve already been touching me.” Clint returned, but there was a note of humor in his voice.

Taking his reply as tacit approval, Coulson rested his palm against Clint’s sternum. There was something reverential in the touch, as though he couldn’t believe that Clint was allowing it. He watched as Phil trailed the tips of his fingers across his pectoral muscle, and then circled his nipple with the pad of his thumb. Phil was watching him carefully, his expression inscrutable. This close, the Sentinel’s eyes looked almost storm-gray.

Clint’s breath hitched as Phil brushed around the sensitive flesh, causing it to pebble. Without breaking eye contact, the Sentinel leaned down, catching the hardened nub in his mouth. Clint groaned softly, unable to prevent himself from arching slightly into his mouth. At once, Phil’s expression sharpened, becoming knowing. He flicked the nipple with the tip of his tongue, teasing.

“Do you want this?” He asked, rather redundantly, as he raised his hand to roll Clint’s other nipple between forefinger and thumb.

Clint’s breath was coming faster now, and he could feel the way his cock was thickening between them. He shifted his hips, trying to get some friction against the center of his need. Phil watched him squirm, an anticipatory look building on his face.

“Do you want this?” He asked again, pressing a kiss into the skin of Clint’s chest. When he didn’t answer, Coulson lifted his hips away. Clint keened, trying to rut up against him, but Coulson shifted, pressing Clint’s pelvis into the mattress with both hands.

“I need to hear you say it.” He said softly, eyes roving over Clint’s face as his thumbs stroked small circles into the flesh just inches away from his cock, “Do you want this?”

Clint squeezed his eyes shut, making a strangled sound in the back of his throat.

“Yes, you fucker, I want it.”

The weight of Phil’s body was abruptly gone, and Clint’s eyes snapped open in surprise. He stared in disbelief as Coulson settled between Clint’s legs, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his inner thigh.

Clint had one dizzying moment to think _oh god, yes please_ and then Coulson was lapping at the head of his cock. Clint’s breath left him in an explosive rush and he rucked the sheets up in his hands. He could feel Coulson’s tongue teasing the slit of his dick, lapping at the precum that had beaded there. All the while, his hand gently pumped the base of Clint’s erection. His grip was light, not quite giving Clint what he wanted—what he _needed_.

Clint squeezed his eyes closed as Coulson mouthed at the tip of his dick, tongue working the frenulum with practiced ease. He longed for the older man to swallow him down, to jerk him off, something, anything, other than this slow burn. As if listening to his thoughts, and indeed he may well have been, Coulson took a little more of Clint’s cock in his mouth. He suckled at him, working the hardened flesh with lips and tongue in a way that stoked the heat of Clint’s arousal, but did not satisfy it. Clint was panting now, shallow and fast, as he fought the urge to fist his hands in the Sentinel’s hair and fuck his mouth.

“There is a bottle of lube in the bedside table, top shelf. Get it for me, please.” Coulson murmured, kitten-licking down the length of Clint’s cock.

Clint didn’t even contemplate his actions, he just rolled onto one hip and reached for the drawer. As he rummaged around inside the table, Phil took more of his cock into his mouth. When Clint finally found the palm-sized bottle, he rolled onto his back once again.

“Got it.” He said, voice gone low and gravelly. 

“Thank-you.” Coulson murmured, and as though to demonstrate his appreciation, he fisted Clint’s cock and stroked him from root to tip. Clint tossed his head back and groaned, long and low. The older man took the bottle from his unresisting fingers, and popped it open. A moment later, cool oil drizzled over Clint’s cock and balls, dribbling down his crack. The shock if it caused Clint to yell out in surprise.

Coulson’s hand was back on his cock before the air had left his lungs. His grip was sure and firm as he stroked him from root to tip. Occasionally, he would twist his wrist _just so_ as he palmed the head of Clint’s cock, sending a shock of pleasure straight to his balls. The Sentinel’s pace was unhurried, and he took his time taking Clint apart.

“What are you doing to me?” Clint groaned, almost to himself.

The Sentinel continued to stroke him, his grip slick and warm. Clint could feel his arousal tightening in his belly, and he writhed against the mattress, desperate to thrust but restrained by the weight on his thighs. Clint was sweating heavily now, his hair plastered to his forehead. Coulson’s other hand dropped to the space between his legs, carefully fondling Clint’s balls.

“You’re beautiful.” Coulson murmured, and then Clint gasped as one slick finger rubbed against his puckered entrance. The touch sent a _thrill_ of pleasure straight to his cock, and he was sure that he was going to come, when Phil grasped the base of his erection and squeezed. Clint’s eyes flew open in surprise. Before he could protest, however, Coulson’s finger breached his body.

“Oh fuck.” Clint whispered. Coulson’s fingers were long and dexterous, and it was a scant second before he was rubbing against Clint’s prostrate, “Oh _fuck!_ ” He cried, grinding his hips up as well as he was able.

“That’s the idea.” Coulson replied dryly.

The Sentinel crooked his finger several times, and then a second finger joined the first. He thrust in and out, stretching him, but Clint needed very little preparation after their earlier coupling—a fact that Clint reminded him forcibly and at great volume.

“Jesus Christ, Coulson, quit dicking around and _fuck me._ ” He snapped.

Coulson’s lips twitched up in amusement, but he withdrew his fingers all the same. He took a moment to uncap the lubricant, drizzling oil onto his palm and then stroking his erection. He watched Clint with hooded eyes as he moved between his thighs.

“I wish you could see yourself, as I see you.” He murmured, pressing the head of his cock to Clint’s entrance, “I can hear every beat of your heart, can see the salt drying on your skin, can smell your arousal. You’re _magnificent_.” His voice dropped, becoming a low growl as he pushed into Clint’s body. He shifted, pushing Clint’s legs up and apart, as he bottomed out.

They lay there for a long moment, panting. Despite their earlier sex, Clint felt impossibly full and stimulated in a way that was totally unfamiliar. Coulson seemed to wait until Clint caught his breath, and then he began to move. His thrusts were slow and deep, a rhythmic rolling of his hips. The Sentinel leaned forward, bracketing Clint’s body with his arms.

“Can I kiss you, Clint?” He asked.

Clint squinted open his eyes, sweat gathering on his lashes.

“You’re balls-deep inside me, Coulson.” Clint managed, “You have a strange understanding of consent.” 

Coulson ducked his head to nuzzle at the tender flesh beneath Clint’s ear. He mouthed along the length of Clint’s jaw, tender kisses interspersed with stinging little nips. When he got to his chin, the Sentinel placed a gentle, almost chaste kiss against the corner of Clint’s mouth.

“I didn’t want to presume.” He murmured.

Clint squeezed his eyes shut as a well-placed thrust nailed him squarely in the prostrate. His cock was hard between them, leaking precum all over their bellies. Clint’s breath hitched as he choked back a moan at the thought.

“Don’t hold back.” Coulson entreated, hands moving to cradle the sides of Clint’s face, “I want to hear you.”

Clint’s breath was coming hard and fast as he panted in time with their rutting. As though determined to wrangle another sound from him, Coulson dipped his head to the junction of Clint’s neck and shoulder. The Sentinel laved him with his tongue, before sucking a bruise into the tender flesh. Clint made a high-pitched, needy sound, too undignified to even be called a whimper. Coulson rumbled above him, pleased and predatory, and answered the sound with a sharp thrust of his hips.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, _oh fuck.”_ Clint gasped, pushing a hand between them to grasp his cock.

“That’s it, Clint. Let me hear you.” Coulson urged, his hands falling to Clint’s hips, “You’re so perfect, God, how are you real?” With that, he thrust again, pulling Clint down onto his cock as he did so. Clint was unable to prevent his guttural moan as he stroked his cock in time with the older man’s thrusts. The sound seemed to break some resolve in the Sentinel, for suddenly his pace was punishing. He fucked into Clint like salvation could be found in his asshole, and Clint whimpered every time he stroked over his prostrate. It was no time at all before Clint felt his groin tighten with familiar pleasure. He opened his mouth—whether to warn Coulson or beg for more, he couldn’t say—but suddenly the Sentinel’s lips crashed into his own. The kiss was possessive and reverential and _fucking profane_ , and Clint cried out sharply as he came. Coulson growled into his mouth, his grip tightening on Clint’s hips to the point of pain. A moment later, he thrust harshly and then stilled, spurting his release deep inside him.

Clint came back to himself slowly. Coulson lay draped over him, his face pressed into the crook of Clint’s neck. They were both soaked with sweat and trembling from exertion. After a long moment, Coulson raised his head and looked Clint in the eye.

“You okay?”

Clint nodded faintly, before grimacing at the feel of the tacky mess rapidly cooling on his stomach. Coulson seemed to understand the source of his discontentment, for he pressed a kiss against the hallow of Clint’s throat, and then withdrew.

“I’ll be right back, don’t move.” Coulson said, climbing off the bed.

“Ten-four.” Clint rasped, flinging an arm over his face. He could hear Coulson pad out of the bedroom, and then there were distant sounds of him moving about the living room. By the time the Sentinel made his way back to the bed, Clint was drifting, half-asleep and comfortable.

“I’m going to clean you up, and then we can rest.” Coulson murmured. A moment later, a damp cloth was drawn across his chest. Clint squinted open an eye, watching as the Sentinel carefully and meticulously cleaned his belly, thighs, and genitals. When he finished, Coulson threw the towel in the direction of the closet, before bending down to pick up something off the floor, “Here, drink.” He coaxed, holding the water canister up to Clint’s lips.

Clint grunted at him, but he drank deeply all the same. The water was cool and refreshing, and it satiated his thirst. When he finished, he handed the canister back to Coulson. The Sentinel hummed at him approvingly, taking a drink from the canister before capping it and setting it aside. Then he laid down beside Clint, before pulling the blankets around them both. He fussed for a moment, tucking the blankets around Clint’s body. 

“You must be tired.” Phil murmured, concern kitting the space between his eyebrows, “You barely slept last night.”

Clint felt a flare of indignation at the implication that Coulson had been monitoring him, but it was buried beneath his bone-deep exhaustion. The Sentinel must have felt his affront, for he shushed him softly, shifting forward to press his chest against Clint’s back.

“Sleep, Clint. There will be time for all of that tomorrow.” Phil gently urged, his arm draping across his waist. Clint huffed at him quietly, but he settled down all the same. He tucked his face into the pillows, letting himself relax into the silky sheets. He could hear the Sentinel’s deep, even breathing behind him. The sound followed Clint down into his dreams only moments later. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if you're still reading. If so, I'll endeavor to update this story more often.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note** Thank-you so much for all of the positive feedback last chapter! I had no idea that people were still interested in this story. As a thank-you, here's another chapter a week ahead of schedule. As long as people are still enjoying it, I'll keep writing! 
> 
> As always, your feedback, whether positive or constructive, would be greatly appreciated.
> 
>  **Chapter Warnings** : Explicit sexual content, canon typical violence.

Clint woke slowly, pulled from the depths of sleep by his growing need. He squinted open his eyes, blinking blearily at his surroundings. It took a moment for recognition to come, and when it did, all of his memories of the previous two days came with it. He was distantly aware that he should be angry, but his rage was strangely absent. In its place was a steadily building ache in his chest. He shifted against the sheets, making a quiet noise of distress in the back of his throat.

“Clint?” Phil asked, his voice rough from sleep, “What’s wrong?”

Clint turned his head to see that Coulson was sprawled on the bed beside him. The older man was lying on his stomach, blankets pooled around his hips. The sight of him served to soothe the strange ache behind his sternum. Clint shifted across the mattress, tucking his face into the crook of Phil’s neck. The other man shifted, wrapping his arms around Clint’s body. As Clint breathed in the scent of him, mingled with the smell of sweat and musk, Phil drew the fingers of one hand up and down Clint’s back. The older man seemed content to lay there and drift comfortably, but Clint’s need was impossible to ignore. His cock was thickening between them as familiar warmth curled in his groin. He rocked his hips, grinding his burgeoning erection against Phil’s thigh.

“Well, good morning to you too.” Coulson remarked dryly.

“Please, I need you.” Clint panted, breath hot against Phil’s skin.

“I know what you need.” Phil rumbled, rocking his hips against him. His erection left a smear of precum against Clint’s belly, and Clint groaned in response. Phil raised his hands to card his fingers through Clint’s hair, before angling his head up and kissing him deeply. Clint grabbed at his hands, kissing him back with an urgency that made it filthy. It was a thing of lips and tongue and teeth, of gasped breaths and soft sounds of pleasure.

Phil tried to take control of their coupling, urging him to go slow, to be patient. Clint’s need could not be denied, however, and he was arching up into the Sentinel’s touch, eager for more. He planted his feet against the mattress and rutted against the older man. The feeling of their cocks sliding together, pressed between their warm bellies, made Clint moan loudly.

“Jesus, Clint.” Phil managed through gritted teeth, “You sound like you’re desperate for it.”

“I am.” He panted, head thrown back and eyes screwed shut as he thrust his hips, “Please, Phil. I’m ready.”

Phil made a low, primal sound deep in his chest, and then he was pulling away. “On your hands and knees.”

Clint scrambled to comply, rolling over and burrowing his face in the pillow as he got his knees under him. He felt Phil lean away, heard the snap of a bottle cap, and then the Sentinel moved behind him. At the first touch of oiled fingers against Clint’s puckered entrance, he squirmed in desperation. It wasn’t enough, it wasn’t nearly enough—

Phil’s finger breached his body, sliding in to the second knuckle. His other hand came to rest against Clint’s hip, steadying him. The Sentinel worked him open, adding more lube and fingers as he reduced Clint to a whimpering, sweaty mess. It was only after the older man was satisfied that Clint was fully prepared that he angled his fingers and stroked his prostate. Clint rucked up the sheets in his hands and rocked back, fucking himself on Phil’s fingers. As physically pleasurable as the act was, it did nothing to abate the building ache in Clint’s chest. 

“If this is how you plan on killing me, then do it. Otherwise, hurry up and fuck me.” He bit out over his shoulder. Phil’s breath hitched, and then a moment later, his hands fell away. Clint could hear the wet sound of oil against hard flesh, and then the head of Phil’s cock was pressing against his entrance.

“Mine.” Phil panted, grasping Clint’s hips as he pressed into him, inch by inch, “No one else could handle you.”

Clint groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as Phil bottomed out. The other man’s cock felt impossibly swollen and hard, stretching him just this side of painful. He tensed in anticipation of the first thrust, but it never came. Phil was grasping his hips, holding him steady, as he breathed harshly above him. Clint rocked his pelvis, trying to send a message, but Phil’s grip became bruising.

“This is going to be all over if you don’t give me a second.” Phil managed.

Clint made a needy sound in the back of his throat, unable to prevent himself from rocking his hips in little circles. The motion caused sparks of pleasure to skitter up his spine every time Phil’s cock brushed against his prostate. After the older man caught his breath, he bent himself to task. He pulled out until only the head of his cock remained sheathed in Clint’s body, and then he thrust back in. Phil set up a steady pace, controlling the depth of each thrust with his hands on Clint’s hips. Every other thrust nailed Clint’s prostate, and it wasn’t long until he was reduced to mindless begging. Thankfully, Phil was more than happy to oblige him.

It was not long before the steady rhythm of Phil’s thrusting grew erratic. The older man let go of Clint’s hip with one hand, reaching to grasp his cock. He stroked Clint from root to crown, his grip firm and warm. Clint fisted his hands in the sheets, pleasure ratcheting up with every stroke, until a well-placed thrust pushed him over the edge. He moaned loudly into the mattress as he shook apart on Phil’s cock. Behind him, Phil swore colorfully in a language that he didn’t recognize. A moment later, the Sentinel grasped Clint’s hips with both hands and thrust deeply into his unresisting body. Clint closed his eyes and rode it out until Phil went rigid, panting through his release.

Things were blurry for a while after that. He was aware of Phil pulling out, of the gentle kisses pressed between his shoulderblades. Then, time seemed to stretch and his awareness became disjointed. One moment Phil was lying at his side, trying to catch his breath, and then he was gone. The bed seemed impossibly large in his absence. Clint stretched against the mattress, floating in a haze of hormones, utterly content. The next thing he knew, Phil was drawing a damp cloth over his body. The older man murmured at him as he worked, his words soft and soothing. When Phil pressed the canister of water to Clint’s lips, he opened his mouth and drank. The Sentinel stroked Clint’s hair the entire time, and when he finished, he brushed away the water that had trickled over his chin.

Clint slept then, swaddled in expensive sheets with Phil’s body curled around him. When he awoke an interminable time later, it was to the smell of fresh fruit and sausage. He groaned softly, unwilling to surface from the warm darkness in which he had been drifting. From across the room, Phil chuckled at him.

“You need to eat something.”

Clint burrowed his face into the pillow and mumbled, “I’m tired.”

He could hear Phil’s footsteps as the older man crossed the room towards the bed, “I know you are, but you need the calories. You can sleep later, I promise.”

Clint turned his head, blinking open his eyes. Phil was standing at the side of the bed, dressed in a knee-length robe. The navy-blue fabric was plush and soft looking. The Sentinel was holding a breakfast tray in his hands, which was piled with an assortment of food and drink. Clint groaned again, but he pushed himself into a sitting position all the same. Phil leaned forward, placing the tray over his lap. The teak-colored platter had four squat legs that rested on the mattress. It contained an impressive spread, including breakfast proteins, carbs, and fruits. When he glanced up at Phil in surprise, the Sentinel’s eyes warmed with a smile.

“We don’t have any information about your dietary preferences. The kitchen sent a few options, as you can see.”

“I’ll eat anything put in front of me. It’s not like I could afford to be picky.” Clint replied wryly, picking up a knife and fork. As focused as he was on the meal, he missed the fissure of tension that crossed Phil’s face.

Clint ate slowly, enjoying the meal. His breakfast was usually a hurried affair, a dry slice of toast or a bowl of cereal. It was rare for him to sit down for a hot spread in the mornings. After he ate his fill, which was less than half of what had been brought, he set the tray aside and settled back against the pillows.

“What time is it?” He asked lazily. There were no windows in the suite, and no clock on the bedside table.

Phil picked up the tray, setting it on the ottoman at the end of the bed. “It’s just after noon.”

“Really? I haven’t slept past six o’clock in years.”

Phil’s expression became wry as he sat down next to Clint, “You had a busy few days. You needed it.”

Clint hummed at him in agreement, his eyes fixed on the Sentinel’s chest. When Phil had sat down, his robe had fallen open, revealing an expanse of pale skin dusted with fine, brown hair. Clint reached towards him, as though in a trance, fingertips ghosting over the warm flesh. Phil caught Clint’s hand with his own, giving him a gentle squeeze.

“Do you need to use the bathroom? Or a shower, perhaps?”

Clint shook his head faintly, “No.”

Phil’s thumb stroked over the back of his hand, “Are you sure?”

“I just need you.” Clint replied. He was surprised by his sentimentality, but he could not deny the way that the Sentinel’s presence soothed him, calming something frantic deep inside him.

“You have me.” Phil murmured, like a promise.

Clint grasped the navy blue robe in both hands, tugging until Phil relented and laid down beside him. He sighed softly, tucking his nose into the side of Phil’s neck, just below his ear. The Sentinel pressed a kiss against the crown of his head, and wrapped his arms around Clint’s shoulders. They stayed there like that, in a tangle of limbs and sheets, until Clint drifted off again.

When he awoke sometime later, it was to the urgent call of nature. He groaned, rolling to the edge of the bed and climbing to his feet. Phil was asleep, naked again beneath the sheets. Clint watched him for a long moment, taking in the way his lips were parted slightly and his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Then, unable to deny his basic needs any longer, Clint made his way into the bathroom.

After he relieved himself, Clint stared considerately at the shower. Eager though he might be to get back to bed, and to Phil, he knew that he badly needed a wash. He stunk like sweat and body odor, which was not an alluring combination for anyone, but especially not for a Sentinel with an enhanced sense of smell. Clint didn’t know which of Coulson’s senses were heightened, but he didn’t want to take the chance.

With a resigned sigh, Clint turned on the faucet and stepped under the warm spray. He washed himself quickly, sluicing away the sweat and grime of the last twelve hours. When he finished, he shut off the water and stepped out of the shower enclosure. He pulled a plush, cream-colored towel off the rack and began drying himself. When he was no longer dripping wet, he slung the towel around his shoulders and ambled out of the bathroom. By the time he stepped back into the bedroom, Coulson was awake and reclining against the headboard. The Sentinel was wearing the robe again, though it was tied loosely across his waist.

“Good afternoon.” Phil murmured, “Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah, I did.” Clint replied, “What time is it?”

“I’m not sure exactly. It’s not six o’clock yet, as the evening meal hasn’t been brought up.”

Clint nodded at that, before glancing down at his bare body, “Any chance they’ll bring me some clothes when they do?” Phil’s gaze sharpened at his question, his eyes roving over Clint’s face. Taken aback by the sudden scrutiny, Clint folded his arms self-consciously over his chest, “What?”

“The bond must be in its last stages of completion.”

The Sentinel’s words caught him completely by surprise. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you want to get dressed.” Phil replied dryly.

“Oh.” Clint said, uncertain how to take that news, “How will we know when it’s finished?”

Phil’s expression became inscrutable as he replied, seriously, “We’ll know.”

Clint frowned faintly at the slightly ominous tone, but before he could dwell on it, Phil beckoned him nearer. Clint padded towards the bed, and when he approached, Phil settled his hands against Clint’s hips. His thumbs smoothed little circles over the flesh of his pelvis.

“Would you like to lay down with me?” Phil asked gently.

Uncertain why he would bother asking, when they had been in bed all day, Clint nodded faintly. Phil smiled at him, warm and approving, as he made room for him on the mattress. Clint lay down beside him, cushioning his head on Phil’s chest, as the Sentinel draped an arm over his hips. Phil smoothed his other hand across Clint’s back, his touch and his scent serving lull Clint into a light doze.

Clint didn’t know for how long he drifted there, in the protective embrace of Phil’s arms. It could have been minutes or hours, it was impossible to tell. Slowly but surely, however, Clint became aware of an odd sensation building in his mind. He shook his head sharply, but the sensation continued to intensify. It wasn’t painful, not exactly, but it was strange. As Clint pushed himself up onto his elbows, he was distantly aware of the way that Phil tensed beneath him. Clint turned to look at the Sentinel, opening his mouth to demand an explanation, when it happened. All at once, like a key turning in a lock or a window being thrown open, reality reasserted itself.

Clint went rigid from head to toe. It was as though a veil had lifted in his mind, allowing him to replay the events of the last eighteen hours in vivid detail. His heart lodged itself in his throat, rage and fear and denial slamming into him with the force of a thermonuclear explosion.

“Calm down, Clint.” Coulson’s voice was concerned, wary even, “You’re alright.”

Clint could barely hear him over the sound of the pulse thundering in his ears. “No.” He whispered through numb lips, _“No.”_

“Clint—“ Coulson started, but then Clint rounded on him.

 _“_ You sonofabitch _!”_ He screamed in unfettered rage, “ _You motherfucker!”_

Before Coulson could reply, Clint was on him. The first punch caught the Sentinel by surprise, snapping his head to the side, but then they were on a level playing field. As Clint had suspected, the older man proved to be a capable fighter. When Clint tried to punch him again, Coulson leaned out of the way, catching Clint’s arm and wrestling it behind his back.

“Stop! Clint, stop!” Coulson yelled, “I don’t want to hurt you!”

“The feeling is _not fucking mutual!”_ Clint snarled, twisting out of the submission hold and kicking Coulson squarely in the chest. The Sentinel was close enough to the edge of the bed that it sent him sprawling onto the floor. Clint scrambled off the mattress after him, landing hard on his knees as he straddled Coulson’s waist. He fisted one hand in his robe, drawing back his other arm for another punch. Coulson bucked his hips, twisting one leg to hook around Clint’s body. The Sentinel rolled them over, reversing their positions as Clint’s fist jabbed into his ribs.

“Clint! Stop it!” Coulson snapped, grappling for Clint’s wrists. The Sentinel’s words were heavy with _command_ , and it pulled Clint up short. Coulson took advantage of his split-second hesitation, adjusting his body weight to press down on Clint’s hips. Distantly, Clint could hear the sound of pounding footsteps and urgent talking, but it was a periphery annoyance, easily ignored. He bucked his hips and twisted violently to one side. The maneuver only just managed to unseat Coulson, who immediately lunged for him again.

Suddenly, a man’s voice demanded, “Guide or sedative?”

“Guide.” Coulson managed through gritted teeth.

They came together again, grappling in close quarters. Clint was tiring quickly; he hadn’t fought so hard or for so long in years.

“I’m here, Agent Coulson.” A melodic voice called out, tense and wary.

“Do it!” Coulson snapped.

“Clint, you can stop now.” A woman was saying, her voice barely registering through the haze of adrenaline, “It’s alright, it’s time to rest.”

Something about her words snagged at him, like a lure glinting in dark water. Her voice was smooth and so sweet, offering him peace if only he would just _submit_. Clint felt a shudder go down his spine as some of the fight drained out of him.

“That’s it, Clint. You can let go.” She murmured.

Clint made a soft sound of distress, his head pitching forward as he squeezed his eyes shut. Beneath him, Coulson went still, his mental presence a complicated mixture of wariness and relief.

“It’s alright.” The woman continued to soothe him, “Everything is going to be alright.”

The last thing that filtered through Clint’s consciousness was the woman’s hand smoothing over his sweaty hair. Then, there was nothing but darkness. 

* * *

When Clint finally came back to himself, it was to the feeling of warm sunshine on his face. He forced open his eyes, squinting in the mellow light of late afternoon. Once his eyes adjusted to the brightness, he slowly turned his head and took in his surroundings. He was in an unfamiliar bedroom, that much was obvious. The floors were rich hardwood, and the walls were painted an off-white color. The bed in which he found himself was made with slate-gray linens, which matched the upholstery on the chairs on either side of the large window. The sight of the floor-to-ceiling glass caused Clint to struggle up onto his elbows. The view was breathtaking. The room faced east, and Clint could make out the sight of the Washington Monument rising out of the thick foliage in the distance. The Potomac River curled around the shoreline like a cobalt ribbon, quiet and serene.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Clint’s head snapped to the side to see Maria Hill leaning against the doorframe. Her arms were folded over her chest and, although her posture seemed relaxed, her eyes tracked his movements with the intentness of a hawk. Clint pushed himself into a sitting position, both relieved and mortified to realize that he had been dressed while he was unconscious.

“Where am I?” He demanded lowly, pushing the blankets aside.

“You’re in Agent Coulson’s private residence which, by extension, makes it your residence.”

Clint glanced around the room with a moue of distaste. Evidentially, the Sentinel hadn’t been reading the _Better Homes and Gardens_ magazine in idle interest. His bedroom looked like a centerfold from a special issue on modern male living.

“Why are you here?” Clint asked, turning his attention back to the Alpha Guide. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, gripping the edge of the mattress with both hands.

“You and I are going to have a little chat.” Hill replied.

“Oh, you think so, do you?” Clint replied, pushing himself to his feet.

“I do.” Hill confirmed, dropping her arms to rest by her sides, “We can have that conversation here, posturing at each other, or we can have it at the table like two adults. Your choice.” 

“Go to hell.”

“Posturing it is then.” Hill replied, “This is what’s going to happen. You are going to keep your temper in check and toe the line. I realize this has been difficult for you, but physical violence will not be tolerated.”

Clint tipped his head to the side, pinning her with a pointed stare. Hill continued without waiting for his response.

“Your mornings will be spent learning all that the DSGA would have taught you, had you surrendered yourself when you presented as a Guide. This includes, but is not limited to, how to hone your abilities and how to interact with both Sentinels and Guides. There are strict codes of conduct among us that must be observed.”

“Is that so?” Clint asked.

“It is.” Hill replied, her eyes narrowing fractionally as Clint made his way across the bedroom, “You will come to learn that Sentinels are hardwired to protect Guides, but in return, they expect deference and respect. You would do well to remember that.”

“Deference and respect, huh?” Clint repeated dryly, “Lady, I’ve got some bad news for you.”

“Your afternoons will be spent with your Sentinel. Proximity and time will serve to strengthen the bond between you. When I am satisfied that you have adjusted to your changing circumstances, additional training will be added to your schedule.”

“Training for what?” Clint demanded flatly.

“Well, I suppose that’s for me to know and you to find out.”

“So… what? You expect me to stay here, playing nice and keeping house? I won’t do it.”

“You will, or there will be consequences.”

Clint stopped less than six feet away from her. Hill’s jaw had hardened, her feet spread shoulder-width apart as she rested on the balls of her feet. It looked as though Coulson wasn’t the only one with combat training.

“Consequences.” Clint mused, as though to himself, “Like stripping me of my personhood, keeping me detained against my will, and raping me? Those kinds of consequences?” 

“No.” Hill replied, her tone positively glacial, “I mean keeping you locked in this room for days at a time with nothing but your thoughts to keep you company. If that doesn’t adjust your attitude, then you’ll run laps until your legs give out. If that doesn’t work either, then we’ll go down the list of creative punishments, and if all of that still doesn’t get you to fall in line, then you’ll be thrown into a featureless six-by-nine cell until you beg for forgiveness.” Hill’s voice went low and silky, “You don’t seem like a man who would hold up well in solitary confinement for any length of time.”

Clint was torn between abject rage and the first, very real stirrings of fear. He could not imagine a worse torture than being confined in a tiny room, no fresh air or sunshine, no stimulation—just wasting away in silence.

Something about his expression must have been telling, for there was a glint of triumph in Hill’s eyes. “The events of this afternoon will not be repeated. Do I make myself clear?”

Clint couldn’t speak around the bitter rage that thickened his throat. He narrowed his eyes at her instead, willing her to _feel_ the extent of his hatred for her.

Hill’s expression was entirely unimpressed, “The feeling is mutual. You will have the remainder of the evening to consider your actions. I urge you to seek your Sentinel’s forgiveness, when he returns.”

With that, Hill turned on her heel and strode down the short hallway. As he watched, three Sentinels fell into step behind her. They turned the corner, and then Clint heard the sound of a door opening and closing. As soon as he was certain that they were gone, Clint leaned heavily against the wall. His breath came harsh and fast as a single thought crossed his mind with inescapable certainty.

He was well and truly fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next Chapter:** Coulson and Clint talk after he returns to the apartment. Clint is shown around the Tower as his lessons begin, much to his abject displeasure.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Thank-you all for your continued enthusiasm and support. I would have stopped writing this story a long time ago, were it not for your interest. As always, I welcome your feedback, both positive and constructive.

The sky above Washington had deepened to a burnt umber before Clint had recovered from his despair. The waning light sent long shadows across the bedroom, enveloping him where he sat with his back against the wall. Eventually, Clint pushed himself to his feet. It would do no good to wallow in self-pity.

He made his way around the room, rifling through drawers and investigating the closet. He wasn’t at all surprised to find that Coulson had a Type A personality, down to the meticulous way that he organized his clothing. The closet contained a dozen identical suits, hanging neatly above a squat shoe rack. Clint didn’t know enough about shoes to discern their type, but they were dark and polished. The top shelf held an assortment of boxes of different shapes and sizes. A cursory investigation revealed that one contained winter wear, tucked away for the season, while another held personal mementoes. Clint slowly flipped through the photographs and memorabilia, trying to gain a sense of the man to whom he’d been bound. Evidentially, Coulson was a fan of Boston. There were ticket stubs to Fenway Park, pictures of Faneuil Hall and the Boston Common, and a blank postcard from Bunker Hill. When Clint was finished, he placed the items back in the box and put the box back on the shelf. 

Next Clint made his way to the master bathroom. The adjoining room was gleaming white and neat as a pin. He pulled open the narrow closet beside the shower, unsurprised to find smartly folded linens, Sentinel-friendly cleaning supplies, and toilet paper. He closed the door again, before turning to glance at the sink. There was an assortment of toiletries arranged on the counter, including a toothbrush still in its package. The sight of it caused Clint’s stomach to cramp with anxiety. He left the bathroom after that, making his way across the bedroom and out into the hallway beyond.

It was darker now, but Clint did not turn on the lights. He padded down the hall, pulling open doors as he walked. The first was a broom closet; Clint barely gave it a glance before shutting the door again. The second door, located half-way down the hall, was locked. Clint rattled the knob, before crouching down to get a look at it. He wasn’t entirely surprised to find that there wasn’t a lock to pick—the wood surface was smooth beneath the handle.

The next door opened to reveal another bathroom. The lack of toiletries on the counter and the bland but tasteful accents gave it the impression of a guest bathroom. Clint shut off the light and closed the door behind him. He continued down the hall, which opened into a large living space. There was a kitchen to his right, with dark cabinetry and gray countertops. The living room to his left had floor-to-ceiling windows just the same as the bedroom. Clint padded forward on bare feet, staring out at the darkening sky. The city lights were just beginning to turn on, and they glinted over the Potomac River. The sight of it caused goosebumps to raise up on his bare arms. Clint had spent his life in small, rural towns and the backcountry—he had never seen anything like it.

After a long moment, Clint swallowed against the emotion that gripped him, and turned to continue his exploration of Coulson’s apartment. The living room was decorated in the same modern style as the bedroom, with dark furniture and light-colored accents. Clint was surprised to find an antique record player in the corner, with an assortment of vinyls in cardboard casings arranged beneath it. A quick glance revealed that _The Genius After Hours_ was on the spindle. For some reason, this fact slotted neatly into the mental image that he was building of the Sentinel.

Clint made his way across the living room, stepping around the large kitchen island to pull open the refrigerator. It was surprisingly bare, with only a half-empty Brita pitcher, some jars of condiments, and a take-out container from a Chinese restaurant. The kitchen cupboards were similarly sparse, although Clint found a bottle of bourbon whiskey in the tall pantry opposite the fridge. He looked at it considerately for a moment, before pulling it out and setting it on the counter. He found a tumbler after only a brief search, and poured himself two fingers of the amber-colored liquid. He took the glass, leaving the bottle on the counter, and made his way back towards the living room. He settled down in front of the window, back pressed into the corner, and stared out over the cityscape.

It was full dark by the time that Coulson returned. Clint felt him before he heard him, like a thread pulling taut behind his sternum. It was a pleasant feeling, a fact that made the corners of his mouth turn down. He took another sip of his drink—his second of the evening—and listened as Coulson unlocked the front door. The light from the hall flooded into the living space, illuminating the Sentinel standing in the doorway. Although it was dark in the apartment, his gaze landed on Clint with unerring accuracy.

“Watch your eyes.” Coulson warned, before transferring the bags he was holding to one hand and turning on the light with the other.

Clint squinted against the sudden brightness. Coulson shut the door behind him, before carrying the bags over to the kitchen island. He set them on the counter and then turned around to look at Clint. The Sentinel had a bruise purpling one cheek and a cut on his lip, a fact that made Clint feel vindicated and guilty all at once.

“I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I got a bit of everything.” Coulson said, tipping his head towards the grocery bags, “We can go shopping if there’s anything I missed.”

“I told you, I’m not fussy.” Clint replied, voice inflectionless.

Coulson stared at him for a moment longer. There was a tightness around his eyes and mouth that gave him a conflicted air.

“Are you hungry? I could make something or we could order out.” He offered.

Clint shook his head minutely, “No. Thank-you.”

Coulson’s gaze settled onto the glass in Clint’s hands, and a wan smile turned up the corners of his mouth, “I see you made yourself at home.”

Something about the amusement in his voice needled Clint, and he narrowed his eyes at the other man.

“That’s the point, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Coulson replied, and his sincerity hit Clint unexpectedly hard, “I want you to feel welcome here. It’s your home now too.”

Clint scoffed softly, taking another drink. “So long as there’s a locked door between me and the outside, this isn’t a home. It’s a prison.”

Coulson’s expression became pained, and Clint could _feel_ the Sentinel’s emotions through their bond. There was frustration and disappointment, which he understood, but the grief was difficult to swallow. It settled in Clint’s stomach like an iron weight, a fact that incensed him. He hadn’t done anything to feel guilty about.

“I know that you—“ Coulson began, but Clint cut him off.

“Don’t expect an apology.” He said coldly, “You’re not going to get one.”

Coulson blinked at him, visibly taken aback by Clint’s words. “What?”

“I’m not going to apologize. Not for what happened earlier, not for being angry, none of it.” Clint spat.

Coulson’s expression softened, almost imperceptibly. “I don’t expect an apology, Clint. I know you didn’t want this.”

The Sentinel turned around, busying himself by unpacking the groceries. Clint frowned at him, pushing himself to his feet. If Coulson had any issues presenting his back to him, he certainly didn’t show it.

“What did you expect would happen?” Clint asked, walking towards the kitchen island, “After the bond had been established, what did you think I’d do?”

Coulson set the bottle of orange juice that he was holding onto the counter. “We knew there would be residual anger, of course, but we had hoped—“ He trailed off, shrugging, “It doesn’t matter now.”

“No, tell me.” Clint demanded, “You hoped what?”

Coulson looked over at him as he pulled a block of cheese out of the bag, “It is often the case that a Guide in a forced bonding will… settle after it’s over, the joy of being bonded outweighing the rest.”

Clint walked around the island, setting his glass on the counter. A part of him bucked at the idea of anyone embracing a forced bond, but another part of him understood it entirely. The feeling of Coulson inside his mind was like a warm embrace, familiar and soothing. The thought unsettled him, and his reply was sharper than he intended, “No offense Coulson, but I’m not made whole by your magic dick.”

The Sentinel chuckled at him, seemingly unoffended by his words. He put the last of the groceries on the counter, before gathering up the bags and tossing them under the sink. He opened the pantry next, and Clint surprised himself by handing him a box of cereal when he approached. Coulson accepted it without a word, and together they proceeded to put away the groceries. Clint tried to tell himself that he was only being polite, but deep down, he knew that he wanted the excuse to be near Coulson. The Sentinel’s proximity eased something inside of him.

When they finished putting away the last of the refrigerated goods, Clint stepped away, leaning against the counter behind him.

“What now?” He asked.

Coulson leaned back against the kitchen island, mirroring his posture.

“Well, I was going to make something to eat. I haven’t had supper.” He said conversationally, “Are you sure you don’t want anything?”

Clint recognized the olive branch for what it was. He considered the offer for a moment, and then something possessed him to shrug his shoulders. “I could probably eat.”

The truth of the matter was that he was famished. The clock on the microwave indicated it was almost ten o’clock, and Clint hadn’t eaten since they had shared lunch that afternoon. Coulson’s face warmed with a smile, softening some of the tension that had gathered around his eyes. The sight of it caused a complicated swell of emotion that Clint tried his best not to dwell on. 

“What would you like?” Coulson asked.

“I’ll eat whatever you make.” Clint replied, a little stiffly.

If Coulson was put-off by his capriciousness, he didn’t let on. The Sentinel canted his head to the side, expression thoughtful as his fingers drummed against the countertop behind him.

“What about some stir-fry? I bought egg noodles.”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” Clint replied, “I’ll get out of your way, I suck at cooking.”

Coulson accepted his flimsy excuse to extricate himself from the kitchen. Clint poured two more fingers of whiskey into his glass, and then made his way into the living room. He turned on the television, affecting an air of indifference as Coulson gathered up the necessary ingredients and put a skillet on the stove.

“I know you told Simmons that you don’t have any food allergies, but was that true?” Coulson asked, mildly. Clint rolled his eyes, lifting the tumbler to his mouth to take another drink.

“I’m not about to give myself anaphylactic shock to stick it to the man.”

Coulson chuckled at him. “I’m glad to hear it. Do you liked chopped almonds?”

Clint shrugged, “They’re not my favorite thing in the world, but I’ll eat them.”

“Clint.” Coulson said, mildly exasperated, “Do you want almonds or not?”

Understanding that Coulson wasn’t going to accept anything less than a direct answer, Clint shook his head. “No then. I don’t care for them.”

“Alright. Thank-you.” Coulson replied. He stepped towards the cupboard, putting the bag of almonds back on the shelf. Clint watched from the corner of his eye as the Sentinel added diced chicken to the skillet. He seasoned it with a number of spices, stirring occasionally with a wooden spoon. It didn’t take long before appetizing smells filled the apartment.

“So you don’t like almonds.” Coulson mused, “Anything else you don’t like?”

Clint was tempted to bite back _being dragged across the country against my will_ , but he didn’t. He took another sip of whiskey, before swirling the amber-colored liquid in the glass.

“I don’t like shrimp.” He replied instead, “Or scallops.”

The Sentinel set the skillet aside and put another pan on the stove. He added oil, letting it heat up, before upending a bag of mixed vegetables into the pan.

“I don’t like scallops either.” Coulson said as he worked, “I’ll eat most anything else. Well, except clams. I’m allergic.”

Clint considered his response for a long moment, rolling the words around in his mouth. Eventually, he decided to take a shot, and he slowly replied, “I’ve never met a Boston man who doesn’t like clams.”

The wooden spoon that had been turning the vegetables stilled, and Coulson half-turned to regard him. His expression was curious, almost contemplative, and then understanding dawned on his face.

“They didn’t revoke my birth certificate, but it was a near thing.” He retorted dryly, turning back towards the stove. He set the vegetables aside, and began preparing the egg noodles, “I know that I have you at a disadvantage, so let me try to even the playing field. I was born in Boston on July 8th, 1981. I presented as a Sentinel when I was fourteen years old. All of my senses are heightened, but my sight and hearing are better than the others. I was a field agent for seven years after I finished the DSGA curriculum, and a handler ever since.”

Clint had turned in his seat when Phil began talking, and he watched him now with one arm draped over the back of the couch. When Phil mentioned the term handler, Clint canted his head to the side. He’d never come across the term in all of the books that he’d read about Sentinels and Guides. Deciding to indulge his curiosity, Clint asked, “Handler?”

“It’s a specialization. I work with Sentinels and Guides in the field.” Coulson explained, scrapping the chicken and vegetables into the skillet with the noodles.

Clint’s mouth twisted with a grimace, “Do you often go Guide-hunting?”

Coulson took the skillet off the heat, “Occasionally, but not often. You were something of an exception, owing to my experience with unbonded Guides.”

Clint digested this information as Coulson pulled a couple of plates from the cupboard. “If you aren’t out chasing down renegades, what do you do in the field?”

The Sentinel glanced up at him. “That’s classified.”

“Oh come on. Seriously?” Clint asked, pushing himself to his feet.

“Yes.” Coulson replied firmly, “There’s a lot I can’t tell you about what I do.”

A frown turned down the corners of Clint’s mouth as he walked into the kitchen. The older man had set the plates in front of two bar stools tucked against the kitchen island. Clint pulled out the nearest one and sat down, “So what can you tell me?”

“I work for a division of the Tower called S.H.I.E.L.D. My responsibilities are in the domain of counter-terrorism and intelligence.” 

Clint stared at him for a long moment, waiting for the punchline. When nothing came, his eyes widened in incredulity, “Wait, you’re _serious_? I’m bonded to a goddamn spy?”

Coulson quirked a smile at him. “Of course not. The spies are my agents.”

Clint shook his head in disbelief, taking a moment to collect himself by ladling stir-fry onto his plate. The Sentinel handed him a fork, but he made no move to begin eating. This new information put the last three days into a very different perspective. It was no wonder that he’d been caught, not if the Tower had, evidentially, brought its full resources to bear on tracking him down. The thought made his mouth go dry, and eventually he managed to reply, “I had no fucking chance in Illinois.”

The older man frowned faintly, his brow furrowing in consternation, “Clint—“

“Why would the Tower go through all that trouble on my account? Why put you back into the field?” He demanded, distantly aware that his voice was an octave higher than normal, “What the fuck, Coulson?”

Coulson’s frown deepened, “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.”

Clint snorted in derision. Rather than reply, he turned on his stool and began eating with a vengeance, as though a reason for the shit-show that was his life could be found at the bottom of his plate. The Sentinel watched him in silence, eyebrows knitted together in concern. Eventually, Coulson turned towards his own plate, swirling his fork in the noodles.

The remainder of the meal was a tense affair. The comradery they had briefly shared was gone, leaving bitter resentment in its place. Clint finished before Coulson, and he pushed away from the island with enough force that the stool scraped loudly against the floor. He took his plate to the sink and ran it under the tap, before dropping it into the basin with a clatter. Coulson followed behind him a moment later, walking slowly, almost warily. The thought caused Clint’s pulse to quicken in anger, and he stared resolutely at the sink.

“You cooked, I’ll clean.” He said tightly.

“Clint—“ Coulson murmured. The sound of concern in his voice caused Clint to squeeze his eyes shut, as though he could block out the Sentinel’s presence by will alone.

“Please go.” He managed, raggedly, “Please.”

Coulson stared at him for a long moment, before he nodded. He set the plate down on the counter beside the sink and stepped away. “Alright, I’ll go to bed, then. I hope you’ll join me when you’ve finished, but I'll understand if you don’t.”

Clint didn’t reply, didn’t even acknowledge that he’d heard him. Coulson looked at him for a long moment before he made his way down the dark hallway. The Sentinel disappeared into the bedroom and warm light flooded into the hall, before he shut the door behind him.

Clint slowly exhaled the breath he had been holding. When he was reasonably calm, and not in imminent danger of breaking something, he began the process of cleaning up. Coulson had a dishwasher, but Clint wanted the mind-numbing monotony that came from washing them by hand. He scraped the remains of the stir-fry into a storage container that he found under the counter, putting it into the fridge for tomorrow. After that, he filled the sink with water and began to wash the dishes. As each item was washed, he stacked it onto the wooden drying rack on the counter. He lost himself to the routine, the tediousness of it for a long while. It was only as he dried the cast iron skillet that his words to Hill about playing house came back to him. It hit him like a punch, straight in the gut. His breath hitched once, twice, and tears pricked the back of his eyes. He swallowed hard, refusing to let them fall. Coulson would hear him.

After he finished with the dishes, Clint took a soapy cloth to the counter and the stove. When the last of the dried grease was cleaned away, he drained the sink and wrung out the dishcloth, hanging it over the faucet. Then he went around the room, turning off the lights one by one, until only the television illuminated the space. Clint tossed one of the decorative pillows onto one end of the couch, and retrieved the throw blanket from the ottoman near the window. He settled onto the couch a moment later, drawing the blanket up to his shoulders. He laid there like that, staring blindly at the television, for a long while. It wasn’t until the late night shows had been replaced by infomercials that he finally, mercifully, managed to drift off.

* * *

Clint woke up the next morning to sunlight streaming through the windows. He pushed up onto an elbow, blinking sleep out of his eyes. The sky was a perfect pale blue, from one horizon to the other. The sun was just peaking above the foliage, crepuscular rays fanning out like the spires of a crown. Clint struggled into a sitting position, blanket tangled around his legs, as he took in the sight. Washington was beautiful at dawn.

He didn’t know for how long he sat there, letting himself wake up. When he finally made his way towards the bathroom, the clock on the microwave read 6:07 AM in digital font. He used the toilet and washed his hands, before staring at himself in the mirror. The abrasions on his face had scabbed over, leaving small but mottled bruises in their wake. Clint raised his hand, running a palm over the three-day-old stubble on his cheeks and chin. The stubble, combined with his pale skin and greasy hair, made him look like an addict who was late for his next fix. He frowned at the thought, painfully aware that it was closer to the truth than he’d prefer. He stepped away from the counter to pull the shower curtain aside. It was empty, bare of any personal hygiene products. He would have to use the master bathroom, then.

Clint steeled himself as he opened the door, and then startled to find Coulson standing in the hallway. The Sentinel was leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded over his bare chest. He had a tired but open expression on his face, and judging by his messy hair and lounge pants, he’d just climbed out of bed.

“Good morning.” He greeted, as soon as they made eye contact.

“Morning.” Clint replied guardedly. He made no move to step into the hallway, “I need a shower and a shave.” He glanced down at himself, realizing that he was still in the off-white outfit that he’d been given at the clinic, “And a change of clothes.”

He half-expected the older man to refuse, but instead Coulson nodded and pushed away from the wall. Clint trailed behind him as he walked back towards the bedroom. As he stepped into the airy room, Clint noticed that the bedsheets were in a tangled pile at the end of the mattress. Evidentially, the Sentinel had had a restless night as well.

“There are clothes that will fit you in the top two drawers of the dresser. They’re bland, I’m afraid. I didn’t have the chance to properly prepare before your arrival. We can go shopping this afternoon, if you like, or you could order something on-line.”

Clint ruthlessly quashed the hope that bloomed inside his chest, “I didn’t think I’d be allowed off the premises.”

Coulson’s step faltered, and he turned to regard him. His eyes flitted over Clint’s face, his expression serious and searching. “I realize that you know very little about the nature of bonded Guides and Sentinels.” He said slowly, as though he were carefully choosing every word, “You should know that the bond is permanent.”

Clint frowned faintly, “I know that.”

“The bond can’t be broken. It will tether us together, regardless of the distance between us.”

The Sentinel’s words were gentle, almost apologetic, and it took Clint a second to understand his meaning. The bond between them would allow the Sentinel to find him, no matter how far Clint ran. The realization sent ice cascading down his spine, and his throat closed up with emotion. He might be a flight risk, but he wasn’t ever getting away—not from Coulson, and not from the Tower.

Something on his face must have been telling, for Coulson’s expression softened. “I’ll leave you to it.” He said, gesturing towards the bathroom, “I’ll make us some coffee while you get cleaned up.”

Clint was rooted to the spot, unable to move a muscle as Coulson left the room. He stood there for a long time, swallowing the tears that thickened his throat and struggling to pull air into his lungs. Eventually, he forced one foot in front of the other. He pulled a change of clothing out of the dresser and shuffled into the bathroom. He shut the door behind him, desperate for some privacy, and turned on the shower. It was only after he was standing under the flow of water, with the bathroom fan on high, that Clint permitted himself a moment of weakness. He cried into his forearms, struggling not to make a sound.

If Coulson heard him, he allowed Clint to maintain some semblance of his dignity.

When he was finally finished, feeling hallowed out and raw, he washed as quickly as possible. The shower gel and shampoo were Sentinel-friendly brands, scentless except for the tang of cleanser that muted body odor. When the last of the soap had been scrubbed off his skin, Clint shut off the shower. He toweled dry, before wrapping the material loosely around his hips. He shaved and brushed his teeth next, and by the time that he pulled on his clothing, a pair of dark wash jeans and a plain gray Henley, he felt marginally better.

As he stepped out of the bedroom, Clint was greeted by the smell of fresh coffee and frying bacon. He padded down the hallway, following his nose, to find Coulson standing at the stove. The Sentinel turned as he stepped into the kitchen, a smile warming his face.

“Find everything okay?”

Clint nodded slowly, circling around so that the kitchen island stood between them. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Coulson nodded at him, turning back towards the stove to stir the protein scramble with a wooden spoon. Clint watched him work with a mingled sense of confusion and consternation. He had never met another Guide, not except his mother, and she was a natural homemaker through and through. She had lavished Clint and his father with elaborate meals as a way to express her affection. Later, after his father had packed him up and fled to Louisiana, he had read that Guides were born caretakers—gentle, subservient, domestic. That description made sense in the context of his mother, but in no way did it describe Clint. He saw more of himself in the stereotypical traits of a Sentinel—independent, strong-minded, prone to a short temper. Watching Coulson stand in front of the stove, making a hot breakfast with every evidence of enjoyment, needled him for reasons that he couldn’t articulate.

Eventually, his frustration overrode his stubbornness, and Clint bit out, “What are you doing?”

Coulson glanced over his shoulder at him, as though in surprise. The Sentinel seemed to take in the tension in Clint’s body, for his expression became hesitant, almost guarded.

“I thought you might be hungry. It’s been a long few days.” He said by way of explanation, carrying the frying pan to the kitchen island where two plates already lay adorned with bacon and toast. He pushed the scrambled eggs onto each plate in turn, and then placed the frying pan back on the stove, “You can save yours for later, if you prefer.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Clint huffed, frustrated he was unable to put his consternation into words, “Why haven’t you asked me to do it?”

Coulson’s eyes warmed and his mouth twitched, as though he were trying to suppress a smile. “You said you don’t like cooking.”

“No, I said I suck at it.” Clint pointed out, “But that’s beside the point.” 

Coulson folded his arms across his chest and seemed to give Clint his full attention. It was a familiar mannerism by now, one that suggested the older man was trying to puzzle him out.

“I’m your Sentinel.” He said at last, “I like taking care of you.”

Clint narrowed his eyes. “I don’t need anyone to take care of me.”

“I know you don’t. You’ve proven that over the last eleven years.” Coulson agreed, and Clint was mollified by the sincerity in his voice.

“Well then, what’s all this?” Clint asked, tipping his head towards the two plates on the kitchen island.

Coulson visibly hesitated before he replied. “You don’t _need_ anyone to take care of you, but you deserve it. Especially after all of this time alone, fending for yourself.”

The Sentinel’s voice was quiet but sincere, as though he were trying to convince Clint of the truth of his words. Clint was blindsided by the swell of… _something_ in his chest. It was affection and appreciation and gratitude, all mixed up together. A part of him, the same part the warmed when Coulson was near and ached when he was absent, preened under the Sentinel’s attention. Clint had no idea how to process these feelings, as intense as they were, so he dropped his eyes to the kitchen counter. After a moment, he reached out and pulled a plate towards him, sitting down on the nearest stool.

He could _feel_ Coulson’s cautious optimism, bright with hope, but the Sentinel didn’t outwardly react. Instead, he picked up his own plate, circling around the island to sit on the furthest stool. He had already poured them two cups of coffee, which steamed gently. Clint picked up the mug, blowing on it gently, before taking a drink. It was good, dark and rich the way he liked. They ate their meals in silence, neither saying a word to the other. It could have been tense, but it wasn’t, at least not in the way Clint would have expected. It was only after he finished the last of his toast that Clint realized he felt calmer than he had all morning. Things were still shitty, but they were less shitty, in that moment. Clint mulled this over as he finished the remainder of his breakfast.

Clint was sipping on the last dregs of his coffee when Coulson pushed himself to his feet. The Sentinel glanced down at Clint’s plate, then up at his face.

“Are you finished?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Clint murmured.

Coulson stacked their plates and cutlery, and carried the dishes to the sink. He ran them under the tap, one by one, and then loaded the dishwasher. When he pushed the dishwasher shut a moment later, the older man turned to regard him.

“I thought I would show you the facilities, if you’re interested.”

Clint managed to keep his expression bland, but it was a near thing. His heart leapt at the prospect of learning more about the layout and security of the Tower, information that would undoubtedly prove useful. Although he knew the staccato beating of his heat against his ribs betrayed his excitement, Clint pushed the thought aside. If what Coulson told him about their bond was true, and he had good reason to doubt the Sentinel’s word, then he would need to bide his time. The opportunity to escape would present itself, sooner or later. Clint just needed to be patient.

He smiled across the kitchen island at the Sentinel. “I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next Chapter:** Coulson takes Clint around the Tower. He runs into a few familiar faces, for better and for worse. Despite himself, Clint continues to find himself drawn closer to his Sentinel.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** I can't believe that it's been almost two months since I've updated this story. I'm so sorry! Thank-you to every single person who asked about an update. Your comments are the reason why I got off my butt and wrote this chapter. Thank-you for your support.

Coulson left the kitchen after the breakfast dishes had been cleared away, padding down the hall on bare feet. Clint watched until the older man disappeared into the bedroom, and then he crossed the living room to stand in front of the windows. The city was waking up, with traffic starting to fill the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge as commuters made their way from Arlington into Washington. The cherry trees on the western bank of the Potomac were visible in the distance, their pink petals in stark contrast with the maples and oaks that lined the river. Clint had never seen a cherry tree before, not except on television. He wondered what their blossoms smelled like.

It wasn’t long until Clint could hear the sound of footsteps in the hall. He half-turned, looking over his shoulder as Coulson stepped back into the living space. The Sentinel was dressed for the office, wearing a dark suit over a light-colored shirt. His face warmed with a smile as he met Clint’s gaze. 

“Are you ready to go?” He asked, adjusting his tie.

When Coulson had offered to show him around the facilities, Clint had assumed that it would be days before he was afforded the privilege. He certainly hadn’t expected to be taken out after breakfast. Clint couldn’t keep the surprise off his face, which only served to deepen the Sentinel’s smile.

“What, now?” He asked.

“Would you prefer another time?” Coulson asked, and Clint could tell by the lilt of his voice that the older man was teasing him.

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “No, now’s good. Now works.”

Coulson crossed the room towards him, his dress shoes ringing against the hardwood floor. He stopped a short distance away, some of his amusement replaced with a seriousness that Clint had come to associate with the Sentinel. “I realize that you aren’t familiar with the etiquette between Sentinels and Guides. It can seem strange at first, antiquated even, but there are reasons for our social conventions.”

Clint resisted the urge to bite out something sarcastic—he didn’t want Coulson to change his mind. Instead, he nodded stiffly. “Fine.”

The older man stared appraisingly at him. “You are a bonded Guide with your Sentinel. Be polite, if spoken to, but otherwise you will be afforded the same respect as anyone else in your position.”

Clint nodded again, growing irritated by the peremptory tone of Coulson’s voice. The Sentinel regarded him a moment longer, before he nodded. “Alright. Let’s go.”

Coulson strode towards the door, unlocking it and pulling it open. Clint followed behind him, taken aback by the sight of two men standing in the hallway on either side of the doorway. They were tall and broad-shouldered, wearing dark suits that readily identified them as Tower Sentinels. They nodded, first to Coulson and then to Clint, as the younger of the two said, “Good morning, Agent Coulson. Guide Barton.”

The honorific twisted in Clint’s guts like a knife. He kept his features neutral with great effort, stepping into the hallway as one of the Sentinels pulled the door shut behind them.

“Good morning, Agent Cook, Agent Cameron.” Coulson greeted, before continuing down the hallway. Clint fell into step beside him and, after several meters, he glanced back to see the two Sentinels following behind them. The sight caused Clint’s jaw to tighten with aggravation. It seemed that the Tower wasn’t taking any chances with him, mystical mind-bonds or not.

Coulson glanced sidelong at him, seeming to sense his irritation. “It’s temporary.” He murmured, although even a mute could have heard him, “It’s only until after your training.”

Clint stared steadfastly ahead, refusing to reply. He could hear the subtext of Coulon’s words as clearly as though the man had spoken it aloud: _it’s only until after you’re no longer a flight risk._

Coulson thumbed the call button as he stopped in front of the elevators. The two Sentinels stopped behind them, maintaining a respectable distance. Clint stared at his blurry reflection in the stainless steel doors until they slid open a moment later. He stepped into the elevator, moving to the corner and leaning back against the handrail. Coulson stepped in after him, followed by the two Sentinels. Coulson pressed a button on the control panel, before turning to look at him.

“The Tower is divided into four areas: residential, administrative, research and development, and security.” He explained as the elevator began to descend, “The residential section includes both apartments for ranking agents, as well as dormitories for our juveniles. The dormitories are on floors 20 through 22, and can only be accessed by authorized personnel.” To demonstrate his point, Coulson gestured to the magnetic card reader beside the control panel.

Clint’s face twisted in a grimace. “And how many juveniles are there?”

“We currently have thirty-four Sentinels and five Guides.” Coulson replied.

He knew that needling the other man wasn’t necessarily a wise decision, but Clint couldn’t help himself. “And how many of them are here willingly?”

Coulson met his gaze directly. “All of them.”

Clint snorted, resisting the urge to cross his arms. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

The two Sentinels exchanged a glance with one another. It was a fleeting look, but there was something knowing about it—as though Clint’s behavior was unwelcome, but expected.

“I will never lie to you, Clint.” Coulson replied, pulling his attention back towards the older man. The quiet sincerity in his voice lodged in Clint’s chest like a physical thing. A part of him wanted to believe the promise that underlay those words—wanted to believe it with an intensity that took his breath away. Another part of him balked at the promise and all that it signified.

Unable to maintain eye contact with the older man, Clint looked away. He could feel Coulson’s gaze on him, but the elevator came to a stop, forestalling whatever he might have said. The doors slid open, revealing an airy, brightly lit office space. Coulson stepped out of the car, followed by the two Sentinels. Clint pushed away from the handrail, trailing behind them.

“Administration runs from floors five to seventeen.” Coulson said, “It includes offices, conference rooms, and workspace. This floor is logistics.”

Clint glanced around, taking in the clusters of cubicles that dominated the center of the space. The room was busy, with men and women in office attire working at desks or strolling down the aisles. The low-level buzz of conversation was interspersed with the ringing of telephones and the steady clacking of computer keyboards. Coulson led them away from the elevator, turning a corner and walking down a long hallway lined with offices. He stopped in front of a door at the end of the hall, pressing his keycard against the reader set in the wall. The light flashed green, and then the Sentinel pushed the door open. The room within was a modestly sized office. A curved rectangular desk dominated the center of the space, covered in tidy piles of paperwork and file folders. A short bookshelf spanned the wall behind the desk, beneath a long row of windows that faced the Arlington shoreline. A comfortable-looking couch took up the wall to Clint’s right, and three filing cabinets stood against the wall to his left.

Clint glanced around the room before turning to look at Coulson.

“Your office?” He guessed.

The older man leaned back against the desk, smiling. “Yes.”

Clint nodded to himself, stepping more fully into the room. “So, this is where the magic happens.”

“I don’t know about that.” Coulson replied wryly, “Although, I suppose I’ve pulled a rabbit out of the hat a time or two in the past.”

Clint made a noncommittal sound, glancing at the knick-knacks, commendations, and personal effects that were scattered around the office. His eyes settled on a weathered baseball that was nestled in a custom-made stand on the desk. Clint reached out, running his fingers over the stitched cowhide. Coulson watched him, hazel eyes bright with warmth.

“Red Sox _versus_ the Yankees, Fenway Park, March 1992.” He said. “My father took me.”

The Sentinel’s words made Clint’s chest constrict with too-familiar grief. The loss of his mother had changed Harold Barton. It wasn’t that he had been neglectful—on the contrary, his father paid the bills and kept food on the table, working whatever shitty jobs would pay him in cash. It was his mannerisms that had changed. His old man had rarely smiled in the years before his death, and when he did, it never reached his eyes. More than once, Clint had caught him sitting on the porch late at night, smoking a cigarette with a thousand yard stare on his face. It might have been an aneurism that killed him, but Clint was certain that he would have died young from a broken heart anyway.

“Clint?” Coulson asked, concern furrowing his brow.

“Is he still alive? Your father?” Clint asked, hand falling away from the baseball.

Understanding dawned on the Sentinel’s face. “Yes, he is. He and my mother live in the South End.”

“It sounds as though you had a very privileged childhood.” Clint replied bitterly.

“Clint, I’m sorry.” Coulson murmured.

“Don’t be.” He bit out.

Coulson hesitated, chagrin visible on his face. Clint could feel the older man’s uncertainty, his remorse, and he hated the instinctive desire to reassure him. Suddenly desperate for space, from the Sentinel and from the situation, Clint stepped away, moving to stand in front of the windows. Coulson let him go, watching him in silence. Clint stared out over the Arlington shoreline as he struggled to get his emotions back under control. Eventually, he heard Coulson push off the desk and walk towards him. The Sentinel stopped at his side, so close that their shoulders almost touched. Coulson pushed his hands into his pockets, motioning to the view with a jerk of his chin.

“The shoreline is beautiful at night.” He said, conversationally, “It makes the long hours a little easier to tolerate.”

“Do you have many late nights?” Clint asked, thankful for the change of subject.

Coulson chuckled ruefully. “Less now than I used to. One of the perks of the job.”

“What, James Bond doesn’t work the graveyard shift?” Clint asked wryly, glancing sidelong at the older man.

The skin around Coulson’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. Clint was surprised to find that he liked it. “Not often, anyway.” The Sentinel replied.

They stood there, side by side, for a long while. Coulson didn’t rush him or try to draw him into another conversation. Clint was quietly thankful for the opportunity to gather himself. When he felt reasonably in control of his emotions again, he turned around, leaning back against the bookshelf.

“So, are we going to continue the tour or what?” He asked.

“If you’d like.” Coulson replied agreeably.

“I would.” Clint said. The more he knew about the layout and operations of the Tower, the better.

The older man nodded, gesturing towards the door. “Alright. After you.”

Clint let himself be led out of the office, down the hall, and back across the open workspace. The two Sentinels followed at heel. He learned that the seventeenth floor was also where he could find the offices of the Alpha Sentinel and Alpha Guide, although they were rarely in residence. They spent most of their time in the field or traveling to one of the twenty-two DSGA districts across the United States. Evidentially, the Alpha Sentinel liked to micro-manage.

As they stepped into the elevator car, Coulson provided a brass-tacks explanation about the other floors in the administrative section. Human Resources was on the fifth floor, Legal was on the seventh, and the other floors contained an assortment of offices and meeting spaces. There was a café on the fifteenth floor with good coffee, he was told, and a cafeteria on the second floor.

Coulson took them to the sub-levels next, ten subterranean floors that included research and development, as well as security and training. The research and development floors were unremarkable. The halls were lined with hermetically sealed laboratories full of people working with pipettes and petri dishes or fiddling with clunky-looking equipment. He enjoyed the security and training floors a great deal more. There were two separate gyms, one for cardio and another for weight training, as well as several large spaces for sparring. They walked along the perimeter of one room, watching as pairs of Sentinels grappled with each other. He saw a variety of techniques being used—the Akido instructor seemed to know what she was about, but the Judo instructor couldn’t tell his ass from a hole in the ground.

He watched with undisguised interest as an older Sentinel took on two younger opponents. The struggle was brief, ending with both younger men flat on their backs. Clint’s lips twitched up in a wry smile. He had been on the receiving end of such treatment more than once in his life.

As much as he enjoyed watching the sparring, all thoughts of hand-to-hand combat were gone a moment later when Coulson took him to the gun range. He stared in undisguised longing through the glass window of the control booth down the long row of firing lanes. Almost all of the lanes were occupied with agents, most of whom were shooting semi-automatic pistols or revolvers. He saw one man firing a bolt-action rifle near the range entrance. The man’s footing was good, a wide Weaver stance, but his grip on the rifle was abysmal.

Coulson smiled as he came to stand beside him. “I thought you would enjoy this.”

“The guy in lane seven is going to dislocate his shoulder.” Clint informed him mildly.

Coulson stilled, turning his head to follow Clint’s line of sight. His lips thinned disapprovingly a moment later. He turned around to look at the two Sentinels that had followed them into the control booth.

“Cook, inform the RSO that Anderson in lane seven is restricted to sidearms until he retakes the rifle training module.” He instructed briskly.

The older Sentinel nodded, grabbing a pair of noise-cancelling headphones from the cubby along the wall and walking into the range. Clint watched as he strode down the alley, stopping near the grizzled older man whose vivid red shirt identified him as the Range Safety Officer. They had a brief conversation before the RSO walked down the range and relieved the man of his weapon.

“You have a sharp eye.” Coulson complimented him.

“I was an attendant at a gun range in Missouri for a while.” He said dryly, “You wouldn’t believe the shit I used to deal with.”

Coulson chuckled good-naturedly. “Is that so?”

Clint was struck by a swell of fond remembrance. He surprised himself by sharing his thoughts with the Sentinel.

“This one time, a father brought his seventeen year old son into the range. The kid had never fired a gun in his life.” Clint said, lips twitching up at the memory, “He insisted on shooting a big game rifle. No big deal, lots of guys want to fire higher caliber weapons. I went through the basics and got him set up in a lane. As soon as I gave him the green light, he set the stock of the rifle _on his shoulder_ and prepared to fire. If I hadn’t stopped him, he would have lost an eye… or worse.”

The Sentinel’s lips thinned in an effort to suppress his smile. “Lucky kid.”

“Dumb kid.” Clint corrected dryly, “I was nine years old when I learned to fire a rifle, and even I wasn’t that stupid.”

“Nine years old?” Coulson repeated, eyebrows drifting closer to his hairline, “That young?”

Clint shrugged. “My father wanted me to learn how to defend myself. He bought me a Remington 783 for my tenth birthday. I loved that rifle.”

Coulson tipped his head to the side, an interested expression on his face. “What’s your favorite gun?”

“Rifle or sidearm?” Clint asked.

“Either or.” Coulson replied, folding his arms over his chest and leaning a shoulder against the window.

Clint didn’t need to ponder his response. “The Savage Creedmoor rifle is a good balance of distance and stopping power, but if I was going into the backcountry, I’d take the Browning X-Bolt. It’s lighter and has a longer barrel, much better for stalking.” 

Coulson smiled, seemingly pleased by the conversation—or, at least, by Clint’s willingness to talk to him, “And handguns?”

Clint released a breath through pursed lips, considering his answer. “That’s a toss-up. I bought a Beretta M9 that I like, but I’ve always been partial to the SIG Sauer P320. It’s got a good-sized magazine and great balance.”

“That’s your favorite, I take it? The SIG?”

“For a handgun, sure, but my favorite weapon is the bow.” Clint replied automatically.

The older man cocked his head, as though surprised by his answer. “For hunting or for target practice?”

“Both.” Clint replied. “I’m a better shot with a bow than a rifle.” 

Behind him, one of the Sentinel’s made a skeptical sound. He half-turned, staring at the two men. “Problem?”

The offender, the younger of the two, shrugged a shoulder. His companion stared at him with censure written all over his face, to which the younger man seemed oblivious, “A rifle’s the better weapon.”

“Is that your informed opinion?” Clint asked coolly.

The Sentinel seemed taken aback by the tone of Clint’s voice. He shifted his weight, seeming uncertain. “Well, a rifle’s got the better range. Better precision, too.”

“For you, maybe. Not for me.” He replied.

“A rifle is more practical.” The Sentinel insisted, “A bow’s only good for stationary targets at short range, everyone knows that.”

Clint smiled thinly at the other man. “Give me a bow and we can test that hypothesis. I'll even give you a running head start.”

“Clint.” Coulson sighed. 

The Sentinel went red in the face. “Are you threatening me, Guide Barton?”

Coulson straightened up, stepping away from the window. Clint ignored him, favoring the younger Sentinel with a guileless smile. “Of course not, Agent Cameron. I’m _educating_ you.”

“You are very sure of yourself.” The Sentinel said, stiffly.

“I’m told it’s one of my better qualities.” Clint drawled, “Right up there with my charming personality.”

“Clint, that’s enough.” Coulson admonished, “It’s time to go.”

The other Sentinel was becoming visibly agitated. His companion reached out to grasp his elbow, muttering something that Clint couldn’t hear, but the other man shook him off.

“You should listen to your Sentinel.” Agent Cameron said through gritted teeth, “Because if you were my Guide—“

“If I were your Guide,” Clint said pleasantly, cutting the other man off, “I’d throw myself out the first open window I could find.”

The Sentinel’s eyes went wide with shock. Before he could reply, Coulson stepped forward, taking Clint by the elbow.

“We’re done.” Coulson said tightly, “Go.”

Clint allowed himself to be steered towards the door without protest. He could feel the younger Sentinel’s agitation and affront, frothing against his mind like an angry tide. It was an immensely satisfying feeling. Coulson led him out of the control booth, passed the security checkpoint, and down the long, featureless tunnel towards the elevators. Agent Cook followed behind them, but Agent Cameron was nowhere to be seen.

It was that realization that caused Clint to reach out with his empathy, searching for the younger Sentinel. All at once, he became aware of Coulson’s emotions, intense but carefully restrained. Clint glanced sidelong at him, taken aback by the stony expression on the older man’s face.

Coulson didn’t say a word as he pressed the call button, nor did he speak as he guided Clint into the elevator when it arrived. The older man thumbed the button for the twenty-sixth floor, staring steadfastly ahead as the doors slid shut and the elevator began its ascent. Clint found himself feeling stung by the silent treatment, a fact that only served to irritate him. When the doors opened, he avoided Coulson’s hand as the Sentinel reached for him, stepping out of the elevator and striding down the hall. He could hear the two Sentinel’s following behind him, but he didn’t give them a backwards glance. He stopped only when he reached the apartment and found it locked. When Coulson unlocked the door a moment later, Clint pushed passed him into foyer.

He heard Coulson murmur to Agent Cook, who took his position in the hall, and then he shut the front door. Clint crossed the room, folding his arms tightly over his chest. He half-expected the Sentinel to stalk away or to start yelling, but Coulson did neither. He pressed both hands flat against the kitchen island, his mouth forming a thin, unhappy line. Eventually, he turned to look at Clint.

“What was that?” He asked evenly.

Clint narrowed his eyes at the older man. “He was being an asshole.”

“You were cruel.” Coulson replied, shaking his head, “I wouldn’t have expected it from you.”

The disappointment in the Sentinel’s voice hit Clint like a blow to the gut. A part of him wanted to apologize, to beg for forgiveness, anything to ease the tension that furrowed Coulson’s brow. Another part of him was outraged. What right did Coulson have to be disappointed in him? After everything that had happened over the last few days? The conflicting feelings rendered him mute, but Coulson wasn’t finished.

“You know, it’s very likely that Cameron will die unbonded.” He said tightly, “He’s young. He’ll have decades to wonder and hope, before resigning himself to his fate.”

Clint felt a painful twist in his chest as he realized that Coulson was certainly speaking from experience. He ruthlessly shoved the thought aside, gathering up the tattered remains of his resolve. “That’s not my fault.”

“He wasn’t being an asshole.” Coulson continued, repeating Clint’s words back to him, “He was engaging in a conversation. Cameron’s from Montana, he’s been hunting for almost as long as you have. I thought you two would get along.”

He was taken aback by the implication that Coulson had chosen a Sentinel that he thought Clint might like for his security detail. He wasn’t used to that level of consideration from people, even if it was misplaced. Coulson straightened up, pinning Clint with a flat look.

“You may not understand everything about the etiquette between Sentinels and Guides, but you knew exactly what you were doing when you baited him.”

Clint wanted to argue back, to say that Cameron had gotten what he deserved, but he found himself at a loss for words. They stared at one another, neither of them saying a thing. Clint broke first, turning his head as he looked away. Coulson sighed softly.

“I know that you resent our bond. I can feel it.” He said quietly, “But that doesn’t excuse your behavior. Do you realize how cruel you were? To suggest that a Guide would rather kill themselves than be bonded to him?”

He could hear the pain in Coulson’s voice, and he flinched away from it.

“I’m sorry.” He murmured.

Coulson sighed again. It was a weary sound.

“I’m going to speak with Cameron.” He said, stepping towards the door. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

“You don’t need to apologize to him.” Clint said, earning a hard look from the Sentinel. He swallowed, before clarifying, “I mean, I can do it myself.”

Coulson shook his head faintly. “No, Clint. You’re my Guide. Your actions are a reflection of me and, ultimately, my responsibility.”

The Sentinel opened the door, stepping into the hallway without another word. As the door shut behind him, Clint rubbed a hand over his face. He couldn’t deny the guilt that he was feeling—the guilt or the remorse. It was a fact that confounded him to his core. He wandered over to the window, struggling to unpack his emotions. The Sentinel’s anger, his disappointment, had been painful to experience, but not nearly as much as his grief. Clint swallowed hard, pressing his forehead against the glass. He didn’t want to care about Coulson, but he was forced to admit, at least in the privacy of his own mind, that he did. It was a fact that made him rejoice and despair, simultaneously.

* * *

Coulson didn’t return for hours. Clint spent the morning and early afternoon pacing the apartment, trying not to dwell on their conversation or the revelation that had followed. He tried to distract himself with television, but he flipped through the digital guide three times before realizing that it wasn’t going to work. When noon came and went with still no sign of the Sentinel, Clint fixed himself a sandwich. He ate methodically, chewing and swallowing without tasting a thing. After he finished eating, he took his dishes to the sink. He washed the plate and knife in warm water, putting them on the dishrack to dry.

It was almost six o’clock by the time that he felt Coulson approaching. The Sentinel’s mental presence pulled at him, as inexorable as gravity. Clint raised his head from where it rested against the back of the chair, looking towards the front door. It was only a moment later that he heard the key in the lock, and then the Sentinel was stepping into the apartment. He looked the same as he had that morning, except his face was drawn and tired. Clint squashed the concern that rose up inside him, turning his head to stare sightlessly at the television.

The Sentinel took off his suit jacket, shaking it out and draping it over his arm. He walked towards the hallway, his step faltering as he passed Clint’s chair.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” He apologized softly, “I was called into the office on an urgent matter.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Clint replied, not taking his eyes off the television. He tried to ignore the way the Sentinel’s proximity soothed the restless anxiety that had plagued him all afternoon.

“I’m going to change and finish some paperwork.” Coulson said, “I already ate. You can order something, if you don’t feel like cooking. There are take-out menus in the drawer beside the fridge.”

Clint nodded. “Alright.”

Coulson hesitated a moment longer, before he continued down the hall towards the bedroom. Clint listened to his receding footsteps, slowly releasing his breath. He could hear the sound of the closet being opened and the clatter of shoes hitting the floor. He sat there for a while longer, straining to hear what the Sentinel was doing, before he pushed to his feet. He walked towards the kitchen, taking the stir-fry out of the fridge and popping it into the microwave. The entire while, he was hyperaware of the sounds coming from the end of the hall. The urge to follow after Coulson, to be near him, was so thick that Clint could almost taste it.

He yanked open the microwave before the timer finished, pulling out the Tupperware container and tossing it onto the kitchen island. He grabbed a fork from the drawer, before sitting down. He swirled the fork in the noodles, taking a bite. Although the stir-fry was visibly steaming, some of the noodles were still cold. Clint ate anyway, shoveling the food into his mouth until it was gone. When he crossed from the kitchen into the living room, he glanced down the hall. The bedroom door was open, spilling warm light into the dark hallway. He couldn’t hear the Sentinel, but he could certainly feel him—his mental presence felt focused and weary.

Clint shook his head sharply, making his way over to the couch. He spent the rest of the evening staring at the television, as he tried to ignore the emotions twisting up inside him. It was almost ten o’clock by the time that Coulson appeared at the end of the hallway. The older man was dressed for bed, in the same loose-fitting lounge pants that he had been wearing that morning.

“I’m going to sleep.” Coulson told him, “I have an early morning tomorrow.”

Clint struggled to keep his expression neutral. “Alright.” 

The older man hesitated, before he asked, “Would you like to join me?”

Clint closed his eyes against the swell of _need_ the rose up inside him. It took a moment before he could reply, “No. Thank-you.”

The Sentinel nodded faintly. “I’ll try not to wake you when I get up. Good-night, Clint.”

Clint didn’t reply and Coulson didn’t press him. The older man turned, heading back towards the bedroom without another word. It was only after the light at the end of the hall turned off that Clint released the breath that he had been holding.

The hours passed slowly, as though in defiance of the laws of physics. Clint turned off the television sometime after midnight, stripping out of his pants and lying back down on the couch. He stared across the darkened room, trying to ignore the way his heart ached in his chest. The feeling only grew more pronounced as the hours trudged on. By three o’clock in the morning, Clint was exhausted from tossing and turning all night. He pushed himself into a sitting position and then, without making a conscious decision, rose to his feet and padded down the hallway. The door to the bedroom was open, and he could see Coulson lying beneath the covers, silhouetted in the dim light. The Sentinel lifted his head as Clint approached, brow furrowing in concern.

“Clint, are you alright?”

Clint stopped by the side of the bed, unsure what to say. Something on his face must have been telling, however, for Coulson’s expression softened with understanding. He shifted backwards, lifting the blankets in a clear invitation. Clint hesitated for a long moment, caught between conflicting impulses—to stay or to go—when something inside him finally broke. He lay down, curling up on his side at the very edge of the mattress. Coulson pulled the blankets up to his waist, but otherwise he made no move to touch him.

“This doesn’t mean anything.” Clint said, without turning to look at the Sentinel.

“I know.” Coulson replied gently.

Clint closed his eyes, tucking his nose into the pillow. The bedclothes smelled like the older man, a scent that was both familiar and soothing. He breathed it in, slowly relaxing into the mattress. He was asleep moments later.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** There have been a lot of questions in the comments about the outcome of this story. Mostly, people are wondering whether Clint is going to submit to the Tower (and to Coulson) or whether he will fight against them. I won't spoil anything here, but if you're curious, you can duck into the comments for Chapter 8 for a brief synopsis of the story. I will reiterate the warnings that I posted in Chapter 1: this is a darker, gritter AU than many Sentinel/Guide stories. It explores themes of subjugation, depersonalization, and bondage (and not the fun kind, either). If that isn't your cup of tea, then this isn't the story for you. 
> 
> For those of you who're sticking around, please let me know! I'm taking a break from my Signature series after I finish Schism, and if there's interest, I can focus my time on this story.

Clint woke to the sound of the shower being turned on. He squinted open his eyes, briefly disoriented by his surroundings. The room was dark and quiet, illuminated only by the light coming from the bottom of the bathroom door. It cast the room in shadow, and it took him a moment to recognize Coulson’s bedroom. The recognition brought with it his memories of the previous evening, and Clint grimaced faintly. He had fallen to sleep almost as soon as he’d climbed into bed—a fact that was as irritating as it was unsettling. He knew that bonded pairs were driven to maintain physical closeness, even intimacy, with one another. Clint resented the reminder that he was just as susceptible to those needs as any other Guide.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, pushing the blankets aside and sitting up. A glance at the bedside clock revealed that it was five o’clock in the morning. Early, even by Clint’s standards, but then, he’d operated on less sleep before. He climbed out of bed, crossing the room to stand in front of the large windows. Washington was still asleep, the bridges and roads empty except for the occasional early morning commuter. It gave the city a dreamy quality, like a thing suspended in time. Ethereal and immutable.

Clint stood there for a while longer, watching the ferry trundle down the Potomac. Eventually, the cool bedroom air became uncomfortable against his bare skin. He turned from the window, making his way to the dresser. Coulson had set aside the top two drawers for him. Clint opened one and then the other, pulling out a change of clothes. Although the items were inoffensive in and of themselves, their implication rankled him. He shut the drawer hard enough to rattle the picture frames on the dresser, before gathering up the clothes and walking out of the room. He made his way down the hall, snapping on the overhead light as he stepped into the bathroom. He winced as his eyes adjusted to the glare. The room was small and sparse, but Clint would make due. He retrieved a facecloth from the linen closet and the hand soap from the sink, before turning on the shower. He waited until the water was steaming before he shucked his boxers and stepped into the tub. He made quick work of soaping up and washing off.

When he finished, he turned off the water and rung out the facecloth. He draped it over the faucet, before climbing out of the tub. He dried quickly, leaving the towel on the counter as he got dressed. The long-sleeved shirt and dark jeans were his size, but he could tell by the quality of the material that they were expensive. Clint had never splurged on clothing. Most of his wardrobe came from second-hand stores and Walmart. Shrugging to himself, Clint pulled the shirt over his head. If Coulson wanted to waste his money on frivolous shit, Clint wasn’t about to say anything about it.

After he was dressed, Clint pulled open the bathroom door. The lights in the living area were on, and he could hear the television over the sounds of Coulson bustling around the kitchen. He hesitated for a moment, but the smell of coffee eventually spurred him forward. He padded down the hallway, stepping into the living space as Coulson poured two cups of coffee. The older man was already dressed for the office in a dark suit and steel blue tie.

The Sentinel glanced up at him, an apologetic smile on his face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Clint shrugged, folding his arms over his chest. “I’m a light sleeper.”

Coulson tipped his head, conceding the point. He turned around, sliding the pot back into its place on the coffee machine. Clint made his way towards the kitchen island, keeping a wary distance from the older man. “So what’s got you up at dark-o’clock this morning?”

The Sentinel chuckled, taking a drink of his coffee. His mental presence was weary but content—more content than it had felt since the bonding heat had broken. “There’s a situation in New York. It’s all hands on deck.”

Clint frowned faintly. “You’re going to New York?”

Coulson nodded, taking another drink of his coffee. “Yes, I am. The situation requires a… personal touch.”

Clint sat at the breakfast bar, pulling the mug towards him. The Sentinel’s words caused a cascade of emotions that were difficult to interpret. He was elated and dismayed and annoyed and disappointed, all at once. He grimaced, blowing across the steaming liquid.

 _Fucking biology._ He thought bitterly.

Coulson must have caught some of what he was feeling, for his expression softened. “I won’t be gone long. I’ll be back tonight or tomorrow morning.”

Clint glanced over at him, the corners of his mouth turning down. “You don’t owe me an explanation, Coulson.”

“I wish you’d call me Phil.” The older man replied, eyebrows knitting together.

He snorted softly, taking a sip of his coffee. It was black with two sugars, just the way he liked it. “I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong impression.”

Coulson sighed, heavily. “Clint—“

Clint abruptly set his coffee mug on the counter. “Look, let’s cut the bullshit. Alright?”

The Sentinel set down his mug as well. There was something about the way he was watching him that told Clint he had the older man’s full attention. He propped his elbows on the counter, scrubbing his hands over his face before resting his chin on his knuckles.

“We’re bonded and it’s permanent. I understand that.” Clint’s voice was devoid of inflection as he spoke, “I also understand that you had as little say in our bonding as I did. The difference is that you want this and I don’t.”

Coulson’s face was expressionless, but Clint could feel the older man’s pain. He ruthlessly shoved his guilt aside, soldiering on. “I know you hoped that I’d accept what happened, maybe even embrace it. You need to come to terms with the fact that I won’t. Not ever.”

“Is this about last night?” Coulson asked, his voice low and raw.

Clint set his jaw and forced himself to meet the Sentinel’s gaze. “Yes.”

Coulson spread his hands, pressing them flat against the kitchen island. His expression was earnest as he replied, “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. We’re bonded. You take comfort in my presence, as I do in yours.”

“No, that’s not it.” Clint said, pinning the older man with a hard look. “I’m not embarrassed by biological imperatives. I know that we’re drawn to one another—hell, we'll probably be fucking eventually. That’s not what this is about.”

“Then explain it to me.” Coulson said, softly, “Help me understand.”

Clint gripped the coffee mug in his hands, staring down at it as he gathered his thoughts. “You’re not a bad person, Coulson. I’ve seen it. You’ve tried to respect my autonomy as much as you’re able, given the circumstances. I don’t object to _you_ , do you understand? I object to everything.”

Coulson’s frown deepened. It was obvious that the older man didn’t understand, but he listened without objection as Clint explained himself.

“Maybe one day you and I will be more than… whatever we are now.” Clint said, “I’m not discounting the possibility. You need to understand, though, that whatever happens between us, I will never, ever submit to the Tower’s authority.”

Comprehension dawned on the older man’s face. “This is about the DSGA.”

“Yeah, it is.” Clint agreed, his voice going hard as he added, “The DSGA, the Tower, and the entire institution can all go straight to hell. I won’t be a part of it.”

Coulson visibly hesitated. “You’re already a part of it, Clint.”

“No, you’re not hearing me.” He replied, coldly, “They don’t own me.” 

“Clint, there are reasons—”

“I don’t care.” He spat, pushing to his feet. He stepped around the island, shouldering past the Sentinel to pour the last of his coffee down the drain. The older man watched in silence, his brow furrowed with thought. Clint rinsed out the mug and set it in the sink, before pinning the older man with a flat look, “Thanks for the coffee.”

Coulson searched Clint’s face, as though looking for something. Whatever he found caused the older man to incline his head, as though in concession. “You’re welcome, Clint. I wish I could stay longer, but I’m running late.”

“Don’t let me keep you.” Clint replied, heading towards the living room. The blanket and pillow were still on the couch from the previous night. He pushed them aside and sat down, leaning back against the cushions. He could hear the Sentinel as he opened the front hall closet, pulling a coat off its hanger. 

“Do you need anything before I leave?” He asked.

“No. Thank-you.” Clint replied, and then, remembering his pique earlier that morning, he turned around. “Wait.”

Coulson glanced over as he pulled on his jacket, “What is it?”

“You said I could buy some things. Some clothes, I mean. Is that offer still on the table?” Clint asked.

The Sentinel frowned faintly. “Of course. You don’t need to ask my permission—what’s mine is yours now.”

Clint shrugged, affecting an air of nonchalance. “Okay, how do I go about that?”

“One moment.” Coulson replied, striding across the living area and down the hall. Clint turned his head, listening to the sound of his receding footsteps. The Sentinel returned several minutes later, carrying a sleek gray laptop. He placed it on the coffee table, before handing Clint a credit card. “If you prefer to shop in person, we can take a trip into Virginia when I get back.”

Clint glanced down at the credit card. It was matte black and featureless, except for the number, expiration date, and card security code printed on the back. He looked up at the Sentinel, asking wryly, “What’s to stop me from cleaning you out?”

Coulson’s expression warmed with good humor. “Nothing, although I’m sure my accountant would appreciate it if you didn’t.”

He couldn’t suppress the huff of laughter at that. “So noted.”

The Sentinel’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “I’m sorry, I have to go. If you want to leave the apartment or if you need anything, Agents Cook and Cameron will be in the hall.”

Clint sobered at the reminder he was under observation. Coulson must have noticed his change in mood, for his expression became apologetic. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

The Sentinel looked as though he wanted to say something else, but he seemed to decide against it. He turned, making his way across the living space and pulling open the front door. He hesitated on the threshold, glancing over his shoulder at Clint.

“I’ll miss you.” He said, softly.

He didn’t give Clint the chance to respond before he stepped into the hallway, shutting the door behind him. Clint exhaled a long, slow breath, closing his eyes. He could feel the Sentinel’s presence, like a warm weight at the edge of his mind. It slowly faded as the older man walked away. Eventually, Clint opened his eyes again. The sky was beginning to brighten into the dull gray of early morning. It wouldn’t be long before the sun was up.

Clint sat there for a while, staring sightlessly out the windows as the television droned on in the background. When the news cut to a commercial break, he pushed himself to his feet and ambled towards the kitchen. The coffee had kick-started his appetite, although he wasn’t sure what he wanted. He pulled open the fridge and then the cupboards, which were both packed with groceries. Somehow, there still wasn’t anything to eat. Eventually, he pulled a box of cereal out of the pantry and took a bowl down from the cupboard. He ate at the kitchen island, while watching CNN coverage of the Presidential primaries. When he finished, he put the bowl in the sink and made his way back into the living room. The laptop was where Coulson had left it. He regarded the sleek device for a long moment, before he sat on the couch and pulled it towards him. He opened it up, powering it on with the press of a finger. The desktop background was a picture of the Boston Public Garden.

He spent the next two hours putting an appreciable dent in Coulson’s line of credit. First, he purchased himself some new clothes. The pants, shirts, and sweaters were mostly from Target and Amazon, but he bought a few items on sale from LL Bean and Cabela’s. The socks, boxers, and sleepwear came from Amazon as well. He took vindictive pleasure in filling out Coulson’s credit card information at the checkout. When he was prompted for the shipping address, he opened a second tab and Googled the Tower’s mailing address. He filled out the appropriate fields, adding Coulson’s name as the recipient, and submitted the order.

When he was finished, he set the laptop back on the coffee table. He might not know how long it would take to escape the Tower’s custody, but at least he wouldn’t be wearing someone else’s clothes in the interim. He stood up, gathering the throw blanket and folding it into a neat pile before tossing it onto the other end of the couch. He was about to head to the bathroom when there was a knock at the front door. He paused in mid-step, staring at the door in confusion. Who would visit him? And why would they knock?

The knock came again, louder this time. Clint made his way towards the door, hesitating a long moment before he grasped the knob and pulled it open. Bruce was standing in the hallway beside an unfamiliar woman. The Guide was dressed in a button-up shirt and a navy blue sweater. His companion was younger and fresh-faced. She was wearing a mauve-colored dress and a purple cardigan. Together, they looked like a pair of middle school teachers. 

Clint frowned, pressing his hand against the doorframe. “What do you want?”

Bruce smiled at him, a hesitant quirk of his lips. “Uh, good morning. Can we come in?”

“If I say no, are you coming in anyway?” He asked, coolly.

“We can come back later, if you prefer.” The woman replied. Her voice was sweet and good-natured.

Clint’s frown deepened. “What’s this about?”

Bruce pushed his hands into his pockets. His expression was awkward, almost apologetic. “We’re here for your evaluation.”

Clint narrowed his eyes at the older man. “My what?”

“Your evaluation, of course.” The woman replied. “For your training.”

Behind her, a middle-aged man in a dark suit shifted his weight from foot to foot. He was staring at Clint as though he had a target painted on his chest. Clint quirked an eyebrow, staring right back at him.

“Problem?” He asked, dryly.

The older man narrowed his eyes, evidentially taking exception to his tone. Before he could reply, however, the woman glanced over her shoulder at him.

“It’s alright, David. He won’t hurt us.” She said, turning to smile at Clint, “Will you, Guide Barton?”

Clint frowned faintly, unsure what to say. He had no interest in playing nice with Tower agents, but he wasn’t about to get physical with a woman who wouldn’t look out of place in a kindergarten classroom. The woman seemed to interpret his silence as a negative, for her smile brightened as she stuck out her hand.

“My name’s Elisabeth. That’s Elisabeth with an ‘s’. It’s nice to meet you, Clint.”

Clint glanced down at the proffered hand, making no move to accept it. She stared up at him expectantly, until she eventually lowered her arm.

“Not a big fan of handshakes. Okay, got it.” She replied.

Clint resisted the urge to sigh. He turned his head, pinning Banner with a flat stare. “How long is this going to take?”

The older man smiled at him, wry apology written all over his face. “The evaluation shouldn’t take long. The training will take longer.”

Clint looked from Bruce, to Elisabeth, to the Sentinel, who stood rigidly in the hallway. Eventually, he made a dismissive sound in the back of his throat. “Fine, whatever. Come in.”

He opened the door, stepping aside so Bruce and Elisabeth could enter. When the Sentinel made to follow after them, Clint stepped into the doorway, blocking his path. “Not a chance. You can wait out here with Cook and Cameron.”

The Sentinel’s face darkened with anger as he straightened to his full height. “Stand aside, Guide Barton.”

Something about the man’s posturing made Clint feel like he was back on solid ground. Assholes, he could deal with. Marshaling what little he knew about Sentinel/Guide dynamics, he fixed the larger man with a beatific smile. 

“You’re not welcome in my home, Sentinel.” He replied. “Phil wouldn’t like it.”

Sentinels were fiercely territorial of their space, more so when they had a bonded Guide. He knew his words had the desired effect when the Sentinel faltered, his expression suddenly uncertain.

“You have a history of attacking Guides.” The Sentinel replied, rallying himself.

“I’ve only attacked one Guide in my life.” Clint replied, pleasantly, “And he was being an asshole.”

“Hey, I’m standing right here.” Bruce protested mildly.

Clint glanced over his shoulder at the older man. “You plan on being an asshole today, Bruce?”

To his surprise, the Guide grimaced faintly. “Not planning on it, no.”

There was something meaningful about his tone, as though Clint was missing an inside joke. Elisabeth smiled brightly, clasping her hands in front of her.

“Well, it’s all settled then. David, be a dear and wait in the hallway. I’ll call if I need you.”

The Sentinel frowned deeply, opening his mouth as though to argue, when Clint shut the door in his face. He turned around, folding his arms over his chest.

“Alright, let’s get this over with.” He replied, dropping all pretense of humor.

“You have a lovely home, Guide Barton.” Elisabeth said, glancing around the airy living space.

“Yeah, it’s special, all right.” He muttered.

The younger woman made her way over to the couch, smoothing her hands over the back of her dress as she sat down. She patted the cushion beside her. “Come sit beside me.”

Clint glanced over at Bruce, quirking an eyebrow as though to ask _is she serious right now?_

The Guide shrugged good-naturedly as he sat in the armchair near the window. Clint turned back to Elisabeth, only to find her smiling brightly up at him. “I’ll stand.”

“You’ll be more comfortable if you sit.” She replied, cajolingly.

“I’ll be more comfortable when you both leave.” Clint bit out.

He regretted his words at once. The younger woman seemed to deflate, as though he had wounded her. She clasped her hands in her lap, picking at a fingernail. “Well, whatever you prefer, of course.”

Clint suddenly experienced two diametrically opposed reactions. The first reaction was shame. His parents had drilled good Southern manners into him from the time that he could talk. He was being unforgivably rude to a guest, even if she was unwelcome. The second reaction was anger. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the Tower had chosen Elisabeth precisely because she was sweet and unassuming. They had known, somehow, that Clint would be less likely to cause trouble with her than with a man. 

“Clint?” Elisabeth asked, uncertainly.

He came back to himself, realizing that he had been staring off. He worked his jaw, before turning on his heel and striding into the kitchen. “Do either of you want a drink?”

“I’d love a water, thank-you.” Elisabeth replied, her voice brightening again.

“I’m fine, thanks Clint.” Bruce replied.

Clint pulled down two glasses from the cupboard, filling them both with water. He carried them across the living space, handing one to Elisabeth and setting the other on the coffee table. He didn’t miss the way she took a sip before setting her glass on a coaster. Clint left his on the coffee table. If it stained the wood, then it stained the wood. He sat on the opposite end of the couch, half-turning to regard the younger woman.

“What’re you evaluating?” He asked at last.

She smiled at him encouragingly. “I’m an Architect. I’ll be evaluating your empathy—its range, nuances, and potency.”

Clint frowned faintly. “My empathy?”

“You’re a projective empath, of course, but that can mean a lot of things.” She replied, “May I touch you?”

“Why?” He asked, warily.

“It’ll be easier.” She answered, scooting across the couch towards him, “I’ve never worked with a PE before.”

She extended a hand towards him, palm up. Clint’s frown deepened. “Why not?”

Elisabeth blinked at him, as though taken aback by his question. “Well, they’re so rare.”

“Rare.” Clint repeated, flatly.

In the corner, Bruce straightened up in his chair. “It’s the rarest sub-type of empathy. By its definition, empathy is the ability to feel the emotions of others. Most empaths require touch to utilize their abilities. Some can do so without touch, but it’s more difficult. Projective empaths are different. They can read others without touch, sometimes at great distances. They’re also capable of projecting emotions onto others.”

Clint struggled to keep the surprise off his face. He had not known that his ability to manipulate the minds of others was an unusual gift. It had come to him as naturally as breathing.

“How rare are we talking here?” He asked, eventually.

“Less than five percent of Guides are projective empaths.” Bruce answered him, before his mouth quirked up, “Congratulations, Clint. You’re a unicorn.”

Clint pinned the older man with a cold look, unimpressed by his humor. “Is that why the Tower hunted me down like an animal?”

Both Bruce and Elisabeth looked discomforted by his words. Bruce shifted in his chair, something like quiet chagrin on his face, while Elisabeth was openly upset.

“Don’t say that, Clint.” She implored, earnestly, “You’re not an animal. You’re special.”

Clint set his jaw, ignoring her. “Can we just get this over with?”

Elisabeth glanced over her shoulder at Bruce, who nodded at her. The older man sat forward, arms resting on his knees, as Elisabeth extended a hand towards Clint. Clint stared down at it, mistrustfully, before taking it in his own. Her hand was warm and soft.

“I’m going to push into your mind.” She said, “It won’t hurt. I’m just taking a look around.”

Clint frowned, nodding. Elisabeth closed her eyes, and then a moment later, Clint felt her inside his head. Her mental presence was warm, like sunshine on a spring afternoon. She smoothed across his mind, curiously.

“Well, there’s no doubt that you’re a projective empath.” She said without opening her eyes, “My goodness, your mind is complex.”

Clint grimaced at the naked enthusiasm in her voice. She must have felt his irritation, for her mental presence became tinged with embarrassment and remorse. She murmured an apology, before pressing deeper inside Clint’s mind. The touch wasn’t painful, but it was invasive and unpleasant. He endured it without complaint. He was curious, despite himself. He knew very little about his abilities, beyond what came naturally to him. He wanted to learn more.

After several minutes of silent scrutiny, Elisabeth opened her eyes.

“I can’t believe it.” She breathed.

Clint was taken aback by her tone of voice— it was equal parts surprise and astonishment. He let go of her hand, watching her warily. “Can’t believe what?”

“You’re not a unicorn, Clint.” She murmured, eyes roving over his face, “You’re a ghost.”

Clint frowned deeply, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you’re gifted.” Bruce replied. Clint glanced in his direction. The older man was watching him closely, hands clasped in front of him. His expression was difficult to interpret—grim, certainly, but there was something else there as well. It only took Clint a moment to recognize it as pity.

Clint stood abruptly, pushing Elisabeth out of his mind with more force than strictly necessary. “Get out.”

The younger woman stared up at him, flustered by his sudden hostility. “But we still need—“

Clint narrowed his eyes at her. “I said _get out._ ”

To his surprise, Bruce pushed to his feet. “It’s alright, Clint. We’re leaving.”

Elisabeth stood up, smoothing down the pleats of her skirt. She hesitated a moment, before venturing, timidly, “I’m sorry if I upset you. It wasn’t my intention.”

Clint’s heart was beating faster now. He watched, tense and defensive, as Bruce guided the younger woman towards the door. He turned the knob, pulling it open and standing aside so that she could leave. As soon as she stepped into the hallway, he glanced over his shoulder at Clint. His expression was guarded, but his eyes were sympathetic. He held Clint’s gaze for a scant moment, before he left the apartment, shutting the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:** The next few chapters will contain, in no particular order: drinking, hate sex, angst, and some budding bromace between Clint and Bruce.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Thank-you so much for your continued interest and support. We've passed 50k words, 200 subscriptions, and 450 kudos! I love you guys! :D

Clint stared at the front door after Bruce and Elisabeth left, as tense as a wire. He strained to hear anything from the hall that could indicate trouble, but there was nothing. No voices raised in anger, no arguing, no heavy footsteps, nothing. When it became clear that the Sentinels were not about to force their way back into the apartment, Clint crossed the room into the entryway. He turned the lock with a twist of his wrist, and something inside him unclenched as the bolt slid into place. He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against the wood. He knew that the lock wouldn’t protect him if the Sentinels wanted inside the apartment, but he took comfort in it anyway.

After a moment, he stepped away from the door and began to pace. What had he been thinking? He had allowed a Tower Guide to look inside his head… and for what? His own idle curiosity?

Clint swore softly, scrubbing a hand over his face as he continued pacing around the room. He hadn’t thought that she would find anything noteworthy. He was just _Clint fucking Barton_ from Waverly, Iowa. He hadn’t thought that it would matter.

“You stupid asshole.” He muttered to himself.

Evidentially, there was something even more desirable to the Tower than being a Guide. Whatever Elisabeth had found inside his head had surprised both her and Bruce. The memory of the older man’s sympathetic expression rose up in his mind, causing his stomach to twist in anxiety. Clint recognized that look. It was the same expression that had been on the faces of the men who had spoken with him after his mother’s kidnapping. It was grim and resigned and apologetic, all at once.

Clint was breathing harder now, his heart pounding inside his chest like a snare drum. He had just cinched the noose tighter around his own neck without even realizing it. He was a Guide and a projective empath. The Tower would never let him go—not without a fight.

A loud knock startled him out of his anxiety spiral. He turned towards the entryway, unconsciously widening his stance and shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet.

“Clint?” Sentinel Cook called out, his voice muffled through the door, “Are you alright?”

He frowned in confusion, before realizing that the Sentinel could hear him. The rapid staccato of his heartbeat, the sharp inhale of his breath, his restless pacing. He wouldn’t be surprised if the Sentinel could even smell the cloud of his stress hormones.

“Fuck off.” Clint snapped, crossing the room to grab the remote off the coffee table. He turned on the television, navigating to the first action movie that he could find. The sound of squealing tires and scripted dialogue filled the apartment. To emphasize his point, Clint turned the volume up to its maximum setting. The television was a Sentinel-friendly brand, so the volume capped out somewhere in the uncomfortably loud range, but it would do the trick.

Clint tossed the remote onto the couch, before making his way down the hall and into the bedroom. He shut the door behind him, muffling the sounds of Bruce Willis perforating some poor asshole in a hail of gunfire. He crossed the room and dropped into the armchair by the window. The mid-morning sun slanted through the glass, cutting a bright swath across the hardwood floors. He sat there for a long while, staring at the Washington shoreline, lost in his thoughts. His moment of indiscretion may have cost him dearly. He didn’t know what a ghost was, but he was certain it was a valuable asset. He should have been keeping to himself and maintaining a low profile, and instead, he had thrown open his mind the first time they had asked.

He ground his knuckles into his eye sockets until he saw stars. How was he going to get himself out of this mess? He was bonded to a senior agent, who may or may not be mentally tethered to him. On top of that, he was stuck in one of the most highly secured facilities on the planet. He had no money, no intel, no backup—he was trapped, in every sense of the word. 

Clint thunked his head against the back of the chair, staring up at the recessed ceiling. He needed a plan. Something tangible and practical. First things first, he had to get out of the Tower. He narrowed his eyes in thought. Coulson had said they could go shopping in Virginia. Perhaps he could convince the Sentinel to take him into Arlington. But then, how would he slip away? And where would he go? This wasn’t the wilderness of West Virginia, where he could survive on his own. Washington, DC was one of the most surveilled, most secured cities in the world. He wouldn’t get ten blocks before they picked him up.

He frowned faintly, drumming his fingers against the armchair. So, how was he going to get out of the Tower and away from the DC metropolitan area, while avoiding CCTV and the Sentinels that would be looking for him, all without any money? His mouth twisted in a grimace. His father had managed to elude them, but he had—

Clint sat straight up in his chair, gripping the armrests until his knuckles turned white. His father hadn’t rabbited right away. He had spent months gathering resources and planning their escape down to the last detail. He had known that the Tower would be watching him closely, and so he had waited. He had attended the court-mandated counselling sessions, and brought Clint to the Annex twice a month, and tolerated their unannounced house visits. It wasn’t until the Tower had loosened their stranglehold on them that his father had acted, and by that time, it had already been too late. 

Clint pressed his hands over his mouth, laughing softly. Of course. The answer was obvious, once he had calmed down long enough to think things through. The Tower would be watching him, waiting for an escape attempt. It was possible that Coulson’s sudden disappearance had even been a set-up. He needed to convince the Tower that he was no longer a flight risk, all while gathering the intelligence and honing the skills that he would need to escape.

The thought made Clint spring to his feet as he began pacing the room. His escape would rely on speed, stealth, and physical combat, if it came down to it. He was fast, capable of running a sustained pace of a five minute mile over suboptimal terrain. He was also stealthy. He could move through the forest like a shadow, and he was certain he could extend those skills to an urban setting. His takedown by Coulson, however, had shown Clint that he needed to improve his close-quarters combat skills. The older man had subdued him without breaking a sweat both times they had grappled.

Clint turned when he reached the opposite wall, pacing back towards the armchair. His skills at reconnoitering were decent, but they could be better. He would need to gather as much intelligence as possible. How did the Tower operate? What was its organizational structure? What were the roles and responsibilities of its different divisions? Clint rubbed his chin, his eyes narrowed in thought. Most importantly, he would need to understand how Sentinels and Guides worked together, both at home and in the field.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Clint pulled up short. His biggest weakness, by far, was his inexperience with empathy. He had no idea how it worked, only that it did. His ability was instinctive, rather than one born of instruction and practice. As such, Clint had been easily subdued, first by Bruce and then by the Guide in the bonding suite. He frowned deeply, stymied. The only way to improve his empathy was through instruction, but that was a Catch-22. If he allowed the Tower to train him, it might reveal his deception or the extent of his abilities, both of which would put a target on his back. On the other hand, he would never evade the Guidehunters for long without the full use of his empathy.

It didn’t take long for Clint to come to a decision: despite the risk, he would require every tool at his disposal if he was going to succeed. The tricky part would be convincing the Tower that his cooperation was genuine, rather than a part of his deception. He would need to be smart. He would need to be _strategic._ Clint huffed a mirthless laugh. He had to make it seem as though he were settling into the bond, even if he still had residual anger.

Thankfully, he had residual anger to spare.

Clint stopped his restless pacing, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. He felt lighter than he had in days. His clarity of purpose gave him something to hold on to. It gave him hope.

Eventually, Clint opened his eyes and made his way back towards the living room. A quick glance at the microwave revealed that it was almost noon. He walked around the kitchen island, trailing his fingers over the marble countertop, before he pulled open the fridge. The bottles and jars on the door rattled against the guardrail. His eyes skipped over the groceries, before settling on the shredded rotisserie chicken. His stomach cast its vote with a loud growl, and Clint obligingly pulled the chicken out of the fridge and placed it on the counter. It was quickly followed by mayonnaise, cheese, tomatoes, and lettuce. Clint shut the refrigerator with his hip, before rummaging in the pantry for bread. Coulson had bought a loaf of challah bread, because of course he had, and Clint was interested in trying it. He took down the cutting board and pulled a knife out of the block, before slicing himself two thick pieces of bread. It wasn’t until he was halfway through piling the slices with roast chicken that he realized he was humming to himself.

He put the sandwich on a plate, before taking a moment to clean up the kitchen. When he finished, he made his way into the living room and sat down on the sofa. He watched the ending of _Die Hard II_ as he ate, enjoying the indulgence of fresh-baked bread. He had had a Wonderbread kind of childhood.

Clint finished the last morsel of food as the film cut to the credits. He leaned forward, picking up the remote and changing the channel until he settled on a round-the-clock newscast. The pretty blonde anchor was staring into the camera as she recounted the most recent Democratic nominee to drop out of the primaries. Clint put his plate on the coffee table and settled back against the couch. The nominee had been a middle-aged man named Peter Yarbo, a Sentinel, according to the ticker-tape scroll at the bottom of the screen. Clint listened with half an ear as the anchor explained that Yarbo had run afoul of the Division of Sentinel and Guide Affairs. The lawyer had argued against the process of denaturalization at a debate in Maryland, and as a result, the DSGA had pulled their financial and political support.

“Typical.” Clint muttered.

The segment ended after two minutes, before switching to coverage of the protests in Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Michigan that were being dubbed, “The Unrest in the Upper Midwest”. It was nothing terribly surprising; the northern states often sympathized with Guide issues, a sharp contrast to the eastern seaboard, which voted red every election.

It wasn’t long before Clint began to drift, full and comfortable and tired. He had slept less than three hours the night before, and it was beginning to catch up with him. Eventually, he stretched out on the couch, feet towards the door, and pulled the throw blanket over himself. It was bright and sunny in the living room, but Clint could fall asleep anywhere. It was one of the perks of having lived his unusual life. He closed his eyes, shifting against the cushions to get more comfortable, and let himself doze to the sound of political commentary.

He fell asleep sometime after one o’clock and slept deeply for hours. When he finally awoke, the sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, sending waning light and long shadows across the living room. He blinked in disorientation, pushing up onto one elbow and thumbing the grit out of his eyes. The sound of keys against the countertop caused him to look over his shoulder. Coulson stood next to the kitchen island, an apologetic look on his face.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” The Sentinel said.

Clint pushed into a sitting position, causing the blanket to pool in his lap. He scrubbed a hand over his face, before glancing at the television. The digital clock on the DVR read 6:56 PM.

“It’s fine.” He replied, voice rough with sleep, “How was New York?”

Coulson smiled at him, a faint quirk of his lips. “It was fine. How was your day?”

Clint resisted the urge to bite out something sarcastic, and instead pushed to his feet as he made his way into the kitchen. Coulson leaned over, turning on the hanging lights above the kitchen island, before carefully shrugging out of his overcoat. Clint stopped a short distance away, folding his arms over his chest.

“I had my evaluation.” He replied, flatly.

Coulson paused, his hand on a wooden coat hanger, before he pulled it off the rod. “Yes, I was informed.”

“What’s a ghost?” Clint demanded, direct and to the point.

The Sentinel sighed resignedly, as though he were expecting the question. He hung his coat in the front hall closet before turning to face him. “It’s a slang term. It refers to your projective empathy.”

Clint frowned deeply, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Projective empaths can manipulate the emotions of other people.” Coulson said, watching him closely, “It’s what you did to the van driver back in Indianapolis.”

“What I tried to do.” Clint corrected him.

Coulson dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Alright, what you tried to do.”

Clint’s frown deepened, “Okay, so what?”

Coulson loosened his tie, before gingerly slipping out of his suit jacket. He draped the dark material over the countertop. “A ghost doesn’t just manipulate someone’s emotions; they can also manipulate their minds, even over great distances.” 

“Manipulate.” Clint repeated, slowly, “Manipulate how?”

Coulson’s eyes flitted across Clint’s face, “It depends on the Guide. Some can insert thoughts or impressions into a target’s mind. Others can manipulate how a target perceives their environment.”

Clint flushed hotly at his words. He could remember, in vivid detail, that night outside of John’s farm, when he had hidden himself from the Guidehunters through sheer force of will. The two men had been less than a dozen paces away from him, but they hadn’t been able to sense him—not the sound of his thundering heart, not the pungency of his sweat, and not the low rasp of his breath. It had been as though Clint were invisible.

All at once, he understood.

Coulson must have correctly interpreted his expression—a mixture of incredulity and disbelief—for his face softened perceptibly. “It’s a rare gift, Clint.”

He forced himself to meet the Sentinel’s gaze. “And a valuable one, I'm guessing.”

Coulson sighed softly. “Yes.”

Clint crossed his arms tightly over his chest, aware of how defensive it made him appear. “Tell me the truth, Coulson. What does the Tower want with me? It’s sure as hell not playing house with you.” 

The older man shook his head, pressing his hands flat against the kitchen island, as though bracing himself. “I don’t know for sure. I can only speculate.”

“So speculate.” Clint bit back.

Coulson was silent for a long while, considering his response. Eventually, he met Clint's gaze directly. “There are very few Guides suited to the field. Did you know that?”

Clint’s frown returned as confusion furrowed his brow. “I’ve seen plenty of Guides in the field.”

“No, you haven’t.” Coulson replied, “The hunting parties you’ve faced have had Guides, true, but they stay at base camp. Most Guides are a liability in combat.” 

Clint stiffened, deeply affronted by the Sentinel’s words.

“A liability?" He snapped, "What, are we too _delicate_?” 

Coulson weathered his derision without flinching. “You? No. Most Guides? Yes.”

Clint narrowed his eyes in anger. “You’re being a prejudiced asshole right now.”

The Sentinel frowned, disapproval tightening his brow. “How many Guides have you known, Clint?”

“What does that have to do—“

“Other than your mother, how many?” Coulson asked seriously. 

Clint was blindsided by the rage that swept through him at the question. He tensed from head to toe, his heart thundering inside his chest, as he bit out, “You don’t say a _goddamn thing_ about my mother.”

Consternation filled the older man’s face. “I’m sorry, Clint. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Clint glared at the Sentinel, struggling to control his temper. “You didn’t think that bringing up _my mother_ would offend me?”

The look of consternation on Coulson’s face deepened. “I’m sorry. That was careless and insensitive.”

Clint barked a sharp laugh, completely devoid of humor. “Yeah. It was.”

Coulson sighed again, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. “Clint, my point is that most Guides aren’t like you. They tend to be more timid and less ruthless than their Sentinel counterparts. As a result, very few pass the field training requirements.” 

Clint narrowed his eyes at the older man, “And I'm sure the Tower is totally unbiased in its assessment.”

Coulson pushed away from the counter, straightening up as he pinned Clint with a serious look. “Whatever you might think of the current system, the Tower is highly incentivized to have Guides in the field. Without Guides, our Sentinels are susceptible to zones, to empathic manipulation, and more.” The older man stepped towards him, his brow knitted with earnestness, “The Tower wants Guides in the field, Clint, but suitable candidates are few and far between.”

Clint scoffed softly. “And then there’s me.”

Coulson stopped in front of him, dipping his head in agreement. “And then there’s you.”

The events of the last week, hell, the last fifteen years, suddenly made perfect sense. Clint wasn’t just a rogue Guide—he was a projective empath who had been eluding Guidehunters since he was thirteen years old. He was skilled in firearms, closed-quarters combat, and stalking. He was the perfect field agent, and the longer he had eluded the Tower, the more they had wanted him.

Clint’s knees went rubbery, and he slowly sat on the nearest stool.

“I guess that explains why they put you back in the field.” He said, faintly.

Coulson’s expression softened with concern. “Are you alright?”

“No, I’m not alright.” Clint snapped.

The older man leaned against the counter beside him, their legs scant inches apart. He stood quietly, giving Clint the time to work through what he had been told. Eventually, Clint glanced up at him.

“What do field agents do?” He asked.

Coulson lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It’s depends on their division. Most work within the domain of homeland security and counterintelligence.”

Clint made an annoyed sound in the back of his throat. “Could you be any more specific?”

Coulson shook his head, “No, I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Clint was quiet a moment longer, before his eyes flicked up to the older man’s face. “Are they Guidehunters?”

The Sentinel’s expression was carefully controlled. “Some of them, yes.”

Clint flushed in anger. “How did the Tower think this was going to go?” He demanded, “They tore apart my family, hunted me down, forced me into a bond, and… what? They thought I’d suddenly decide to toe the company line like a good little soldier?”

Coulson sighed again, a deeply weary sound. “Clint, most Guides—“

Clint pushed to his feet, eyes blazing as he stood chest to chest with the older man. “I’m not most Guides.” He spat, parroting the Sentinel’s words back to him, “The Tower knew I was different from the start. What the _fuck_ did they expect from me?”

Coulson's brow knit with consternation. “I honestly don’t know.”

The older man’s voice was regretful, and for the first time, Clint knew that regret was directed towards their situation and not his behavior. The solidarity hit him unexpectedly hard, thickening his throat. He blinked quickly, before stepping away from the older man. Coulson let him go without a word.

“I’m going to get myself a drink.” Clint said gruffly, changing the subject, “Do you want one?”

The corner of Coulson’s mouth curved up in a faint smile. “That’d be great. Thanks.”

Clint made his way over to the pantry, pulling down the half-empty bottle of bourbon whiskey. He opened the cupboards next, retrieving two tumblers and setting them on the counter. He unscrewed the cap with a twist of his wrist and poured two fingers into each glass. He hesitated, before glancing over his shoulder.

“Do you take yours neat or with ice?”

Coulson was still standing on the opposite side of the island, watching him. “Neat is fine.”

Clint set the bottle on the countertop and picked up the two glasses. He crossed the room, handing one to Coulson, before tilting his glass in a haphazard toast. “To bullshit bureaucracy.”

The Sentinel’s smile deepened, causing his the skin around his eyes to crinkle. He lifted his own glass in return. “To the perpetual red-taped nightmare.”

Clint hummed as he took a sip of the amber-colored liquid. It was just as rich and smooth as he remembered. They stood side-by-side at the kitchen island, sipping their drinks, until Coulson glanced over at him.

“I haven’t eaten yet. Did you want anything?” He asked.

Thankful for the opening to a less painful subject, Clint shrugged his shoulders. “I could eat.”

Coulson’s entire face warmed in a smile, and Clint could feel his optimism across their bond—bright and happy, like sunshine. “What would you like?”

Clint couldn’t prevent the smirk that spread across his face. “I don’t feel like doing another load of dishes, so something easy.”

“How about take-out?” Coulson asked, “There are menus in the drawer by the fridge.”

Interested, Clint placed his tumbler on the island and pulled open the aforementioned drawer. It was full of an assortment of flyers and leaflets from different restaurants in the DC area. Clint rifled through them, one at a time. _Chinese, Mexican, Indian, another Chinese place, Italian._ Clint stopped on a glossy trifold from a Middle Eastern restaurant, before holding it up. “How about this?”

The older man dipped his head in agreement. “I like that place.”

Clint opened the menu, his eyes sliding down the list of options. “What’s good?”

“It’s all good.” Coulson replied.

After some consideration, Clint chose the spicy chicken over rice and Coulson chose the spanakopita with Kofta kebabs on the side. The Sentinel ordered the food, in Arabic for good measure, and then they made their way to the living room. They sat on opposite ends of the couch, sipping their whiskeys and watching the television. The silence between them was companionable, if somewhat strained. Clint found himself drawn to the Sentinel’s calm, familiar presence. It was a fact that was no longer as troubling as it once had been, and that in and of itself was upsetting. As such, he avoided Coulson’s attempts to draw him into conversation, and they sat in silence as the news cycle repeated.

Clint was starting his third drink by the time someone rapped on the door. Coulson stiffly stood up, making his way over to the entryway and pulling it open. An unfamiliar Sentinel stood in the hallway holding a bulging plastic bag in each hand.

“Thank-you, Trevor.” Coulson said, accepting the bags and the receipt from the Sentinel.

The middle-aged man smiled broadly. “You’re welcome, sir. The Afghan Kebab Express is great; I love their shawarma.” 

Coulson smiled, dismissing the man with a curt nod. He shut the door, making his way into the kitchen and setting the bags on the counter. The Sentinel made quick work of plating up their food, before putting the leftovers in the fridge and throwing away the garbage. When he was finished, he brought their food into the living room.

“Thanks.” Clint said, accepting his plate from the older man. The smell of chicken and spices made his mouth water, and he began eating with no small amount of enthusiasm.

Coulson slowly sat down on the couch and began eating his spanakopita. Clint watched him out of the corner of his eye. The older man was relaxed, leaning back against the sofa as he reached for his glass. The amber-colored whiskey glinted in the mellow light. Although neither one of them spoke, the atmosphere between them was comfortable, almost domestic. Clint didn’t know what to make of that, and so he didn’t bother trying.

He had put an appreciable dent in his meal when CNN interrupted their evening coverage with a breaking news story. The anchor stared resolutely into the camera as ticker tape scrolled along the bottom of the screen: _Human Trafficking Ring Foiled in New York City._ Clint stared at the television, fork halfway to his mouth, as the anchor announced that an international crime syndicate, which spanned two dozen countries, had been busted that morning by federal agents. The news coverage cut to a pre-recorded video of an alley somewhere in the city. Clint watched as familiar-looking SUVs screeched to a stop in front of a run-down warehouse, and Sentinels in dark suits rushed the building.

The anchor continued speaking, but Clint didn’t hear a thing. He slowly turned his head to look at Coulson. The older man was working through his meal with an unassuming expression on his face.

“Are you _shitting_ me?” Clint asked, lowering his fork to his plate.

Coulson shrugged noncommittally. “I said it was all hands on deck.”

“You spent the morning busting up a _human trafficking ring_?” He spluttered, incredulously, “And now we’re eating takeout and watching the news?”

The two facts were incongruous in the extreme. His disbelief must have shown plainly on his face, for Coulson’s mouth twitched precariously. “It’s classified, I’m afraid.”

“What’s your schedule like for the rest of the week?” He asked sarcastically, “Defusing a few bombs and foiling an assassination attempt on the President?”

The older man laughed and took another sip of his whiskey. “Something like that.”

Clint stared at him for a long moment, before shaking his head. “How is this my life?”

Coulson smiled at him, fond and amused, and it made Clint’s heart skip a beat. He turned, staring resolutely at his chicken and rice, and finished his meal without another glance at the older man. When the Sentinel finished eating, he carefully rose to his feet and extended a hand for Clint’s plate. Clint gave it to him, and Coulson took the dirty dishes to the sink.

“I’m going to grab a shower.” He said, after he finished rinsing off the plates.

“Alright.” Clint replied, only half listening. His attention was focused on the news coverage of the trafficking ring. 

“Do you need a refill?” Coulson asked.

Clint glanced down at the tumbler held in his hands—it was almost empty. “That’s alright; I’ll get another in a bit.”

Coulson nodded at him, before making his way towards the bedroom. Clint glanced over his shoulder, watching the Sentinel go. The older man’s gait seemed slow and stiff, almost pained. Clint frowned faintly, finishing the last of his drink and setting the tumbler on the coffee table. He stood up, padding down the hall on bare feet. The bedside lamp was on, sending warm light into the hallway. Clint pressed a hand against the half-closed door, pushing it open. The room was empty, but the bathroom door was ajar. Something spurred him forward, one foot in front of the other, until he stood in front of the door. The shower was on, the sound of water drumming against tile loud in the otherwise quiet bedroom.

Clint hesitated for a long moment, wrestling with conflicting urges, before he knocked on the door.

“Coulson?” He called out, “You all good?”

There was a moment’s pause before the older man replied. “Yes, Clint. I’m fine. Thank-you.”

The strained quality of Coulson's voice served to deepen the conflict within him. One part of him wanted to turn and leave. The other part of him was seized with anxiety, although he couldn’t have explained why.

Clint bit his lip, hating himself. “Are you sure?” 

The sound of the shower seemed to grow louder in the ensuing silence. Eventually, Coulson’s voice cut over the pounding water. “I’m alright, Clint. Can you pour me another drink? I’ll be out in a moment.”

Clint stared at the bathroom door for a long moment, struggling between opposing instincts. Eventually, he turned, making his way across the room and down the hallway. As he approached the living room, the sound of the television wafted towards him. The newscaster’s disembodied voice decried the horrors of human trafficking as the shower drummed on behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things heat up next chapter, in more ways than one.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Thank-you so much for everyone who has taken the time to leave kudos and/or comments. Your feedback, enthusiasm, and support have been enormously encouraging. 
> 
> **Chapter Warnings:** Explicit sexual content. Honestly, this chapter is 50% porn.

Clint retrieved his tumbler from the coffee table and ambled into the kitchen. He set the glass down beside Coulson’s, and then he poured them both another drink. The newscast was still covering the human trafficking ring bust, but he was only half-listening as he took a sip of whiskey. He couldn’t deny the anxiety and concern that were twisting up inside him, however much he might want to. His instincts told him to go back to the bedroom, to check on his Sentinel, to _help him_ , and it took every ounce of his willpower to walk over to the couch instead. He sat down, flipping through the channels as he nursed his drink. He pointedly did not turn his head as Coulson padded down the hall a few minutes later. The Sentinel made his way into the kitchen to retrieve his whiskey, and then he joined him on the couch. His hair had been toweled dry, but it was still damp. It gave him a casual, almost rakish appearance.

Clint took another drink, staring steadfastly at the television.

“I’m fine.” Coulson said, breaking the silence that had stretched between them. “I was cleared by medical before I even left the field.”

Clint glanced away as he mulled over his reply. Eventually, he asked, “What happened?”

A tilted half-smile spread across the older man’s face. “A suspect took exception to being handcuffed.”

Clint snorted softly into his glass. “I know the feeling.”

Coulson chuckled at him. “Perhaps, but you had good reason. This guy was a criminal, dead-to-rights.”

There was something wry and honest about the Sentinel’s tone that took him aback. It was an acknowledgement that, although Clint had broken the law, he was not a criminal. It was an important distinction, and Clint did not realize until that moment just how much it meant to him. It left him feeling warm and appreciative.

Although, he thought, glancing down at his glass with a wry smile, the alcohol might also have had something to do with that.

They sat in companionable silence through two re-runs of _Night Court_ and another whiskey apiece. By the time that ten o’clock rolled around, Clint was nodding off. He came back to himself when Coulson plucked the glass from his unresisting fingers and set it on the coffee table. He blinked blearily at the older man, surprised to find that the television was off.

“I’m going to bed.” Coulson murmured, “Are you coming?”

Clint’s brow furrowed slightly as he considered the question. Sharing a bed with Coulson the night before had been both comforting and distressing. It had soothed the ache inside him, while also feeling like a defeat. He was torn between refusal and pragmatism, but ultimately, the pragmatic part of him won out. It usually did.

He nodded dully as he pushed to his feet, and when he stumbled, Coulson caught him by the arm.

“Don’t get any ideas.” Clint muttered petulantly.

The older man gave him a wry smile. “Of course not.”

Clint followed the Sentinel down the hall and into the bedroom. His head was swimming by the time he landed on the mattress with a groan. He allowed Coulson to help him out of his clothes and into a t-shirt and sleep pants. The Sentinel’s touch was clinical and his hands didn’t linger on Clint’s body. When he finished, Coulson drew back the blankets and then disappeared into the bathroom. He came back a moment later with two tall glasses of water. He set one on his bedside table and gave the other to Clint.

“You’ll thank me in the morning.” He said.

Clint downed the water and handed the glass back to him. Coulson set it on the side table, and then climbed into bed. He settled back against the pillow, drawing the blankets up to his chest. The movement jostled Clint, who lay on top of the blankets, and he grumbled as he wriggled beneath the covers. The sheets were smooth and cool against his bare arms, and the bed smelled like Coulson. He sighed softly, rubbing his face against the pillow, breathing in the smell of him. It was just as he remembered—homey and familiar, like the forest in autumn.

He could feel the older man’s amusement across their bond, and he slanted open an eye at him. “What?”

Coulson’s face was set in shadow, but Clint could make out the upward curve of his smile. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a lightweight.”

Clint made an exasperated sound in the back of his throat. “I’m not a big drinker, and when I do, I prefer pilsners.”

“We can go out tomorrow, if you’d like.” Coulson offered. “There’s a craft beer store on the Arlington side of the river.”

He made an agreeable noise, a mix between a hum and a sigh, and let his eyes drift closed. The room was quiet, except for the sound of their combined breathing. The proximity and the scent of the older man made Clint relax—it made him feel secure, it made him feel _safe_.

He was too far gone to realize just how absurd that was.

* * *

Clint woke up the next morning with sunlight streaming through the windows. He had rolled over sometime in the night, curling against Coulson’s side. The older man was on his back, one hand under his head and the other resting on his abdomen. His face was slack with sleep—his lips were slightly parted, and his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Clint stared at him, taking in his freckles and crow’s feet and the stubble on his jaw. It was the first time that he had been able to look at the Sentinel without being looked at in return. He had to admit that he thought Coulson was handsome—a surprise, considering that Clint had thought he was straight a week ago. He was attracted to the older man’s easy smile and athletic body. He wasn’t as muscular as most Sentinels, but he was lean and fit. Clint found that he liked it. His eyes trailed over his body, before they settled on the erection that was visible beneath the blankets. He inhaled sharply, and his traitorous dick twitched in interest.

The sound roused the Sentinel, who squinted open his eyes and scrubbed a hand over his face. He turned his head, meeting Clint’s gaze with a soft smile.

“Good morning.” He murmured, voice rough with sleep.

“Morning.” Clint replied tersely.

The older man rolled onto his side, facing him. The blankets pooled loosely around his hips, revealing a smooth expanse of flesh that made Clint’s dick stiffen further. He cursed himself internally, willing his burgeoning hard-on to go down. His dick cheerfully ignored him.

“I thought we could go out for breakfast.” Coulson said, oblivious to Clint’s inner turmoil, “There’s a café in Georgetown that I think you’d like.”

Clint breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. He was almost fully hard now, and his groin was beginning to tighten. He didn’t know whether this was a manifestation of the bond or if he was truly attracted by the other man’s arousal. He thought quickly, weighing his options. They were bonded, and sexual intimacy was inevitable between them, but was that something Clint wanted right now? He was turned on, but he wasn’t mindless with hormones as he had been during the bonding heat. If this happened, it would happen because Clint was a willing participant. Was he ready for that? 

Coulson’s smile faded slightly. “Clint, are you alright?”

In the wake of the appreciation and affection that he had felt the night before, Coulson’s question hit him unexpectedly hard. He looked at the older man, who was watching him in concern. The sight caused something inside of him to relax, and he set aside his misgivings to think about later. He shifted forward, before he had the chance to second-guess himself, and trailed his fingers over Coulson’s jaw. 

The older man’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Clint?”

“Shut-up.” He entreated softly. “Please.”

Coulson frowned slightly, but he was silent, and Clint shifted closer still. The older man watched him as Clint traced the bow of his lips. Then he leaned down, pressing his forehead against the crook of his shoulder. The Sentinel smelled faintly of body odor and clean sheets, and beneath that, something irrepressibly _Coulson._ It made something inside him, something old and primal, keen in relief. He shivered from head to toe, releasing a shaky breath.

“Clint?” Coulson asked, and his voice was softer now.

It pulled Clint back to himself just enough to feel self-conscious. He screwed his eyes shut and pressed an open-mouthed kiss against the side of Coulson’s neck. The older man stiffened in surprise, before leaning back to look down at him. The skin around his eyes was creased in concern.

“Clint.” He said, very gently, “What are you doing?”

Clint huffed a shuddery laugh. “I honestly don’t know.”

The older man’s eyebrows knit together in consternation. Clint was sure he was about to do something stupid, like asking whether Clint was all right or, worse, whether he was sure he wanted this, so he leaned forward and kissed him. It was soft and hesitant, a barely-there press of lips, but Coulson made a ragged sound and kissed him back. He clasped the older man’s face with both hands, deepening the kiss. Coulson groaned, shifting forward and crowding into Clint’s space until their groins pressed together. He knew the older man could feel the evidence of his arousal, as Clint could feel his, and then it was on. He kicked aside the blankets, shimmying out of his pants as Coulson’s tongue plundered his mouth. The older man rolled him onto his back, rocking his pelvis and grinding their cocks together. It was hot and urgent and clumsy and _so fucking good_.

He didn’t realize that he had spoken aloud until Coulson gave a throaty chuckle. “The feeling is mutual.”

Clint laughed breathlessly, running his hands over Coulson’s shoulders, across his back, down his arms. His skin felt electric, and he wanted to touch every single inch of him.

“Take off your clothes.” He demanded, hands tugging at the waistline of his pants.

Coulson sat up long enough to pull his shirt over his head and then he was back, bracketing Clint with his arms and kissing him deeply. Clint made an appreciative sound, arching up beneath him. He was surprised to find that he liked being underneath the older man—liked the weight of his body, liked the feeling of being surrounded. His hands slid over a bandage on the Sentinel’s flank, pulling Clint back to himself abruptly.

“Wait, are you up to this?” He asked.

Coulson smirked at him, before ducking his head and sucking a vivid bruise into his skin. Clint groaned softly, and the Sentinel glanced up at him. “Yeah?”

Clint nodded jerkily, “Yeah.”

Coulson’s grin was wolfish as he sucked another bruise into Clint’s flesh, and then another, peppering his chest, working his way down his torso. Clint squeezed his eyes shut as the older man settled between his legs, and began mouthing at the tender skin below his belly button.

“I want to suck your cock.” He murmured, low and filthy, causing Clint’s breath to catch in his throat, “Would you like that?”

The older man punctuated his question by nuzzling Clint’s erection, mouthing the straining flesh through his boxers. Clint groaned, long and low, fisting his hands in the bedsheets.

“I wouldn’t be opposed.” He managed to reply.

Coulson chuckled softly, before hooking his fingers under the elastic of Clint’s boxers and giving them a meaningful tug. “Lift up.”

Clint obeyed, and Coulson pulled off the offending material and tossed it onto the floor. He expected the Sentinel to draw it out, tease him maybe, so he jerked in surprise when Coulson’s lips closed over the head of his cock, suckling him.

“Oh shit.” Clint whispered, dazedly, as Coulson’s tongue flicked the slit of his dick, “ _Fuck_.”

The older man was just as good at sucking cock as Clint remembered. He pumped the base of Clint’s erection and hallowed his cheeks, taking his length in his mouth. It was all heat and suction, and the velvety softness of Coulson’s tongue, and it wasn’t long until Clint was reduced to moaning.

Coulson pulled off with an obscene wet noise, smiling up at him. “I love listening to you.” He said, stroking Clint’s aching dick, “Let me hear you.”

“Fuck, Coulson.” Clint managed, dazedly, “Come on.”

The older man squeezed his dick, eliciting another drawn-out groan.

“Phil.” He corrected, “In here, I’m only Phil.” 

Clint’s heart was fluttering in his throat, and he swallowed, nodding. “Phil.”

The older man smiled at him, soft and fond. “What do you want, Clint?”

Clint screwed his eyes shut, simultaneously dismayed and _so fucking turned on_. “Please.”

“Please what?” Phil asked, and Clint could hear the amusement in his voice.

“Phil, please.” Clint managed, lifting his hips to make his point, “C’mon.”

The older man chuckled, and then his lips were ghosting across the head of Clint’s cock. “You can do better than that.”

Clint groaned as Phil began suckling at his frenulum, tongue swirling across the sensitive flesh. The older man seemed to know all of Clint’s buttons, and he was pushing every single one of them. 

“Please suck my cock.” Clint rasped, hands rucking the blankets until his knuckles turned white, “Christ, Phil, please suck my—“

His words were bit off in a strangled cry as Phil swallowed him all the way to the root. Clint’s hips jerked upwards, and the older man grasped him firmly, pressing him back into the mattress. He pulled off, until just the head of Clint’s cock was in his mouth, and then he sucked him down again. The Sentinel set a relentless pace, bobbing on Clint’s length as he fondled his balls. It wasn’t long before his groin began to tighten with his impending release.

“Oh, fuck.” Clint choked out, “Phil, I’m close.”

The older man didn’t falter in the slightest, working Clint with his hands and his mouth. Pleasure curled in his groin, through his abdomen, up his spine—he could feel his orgasm building from the tips of his fucking _toes_.

“Fuck, Phil.” Clint managed, “I’m going to come.”

The Sentinel took more of Clint’s length inside of his mouth, and then he fucking _hummed_. Clint came with a choked scream, his orgasm crashing through him with the force of a wrecking ball. Coulson swallowed him down, milking Clint’s cock through the aftershocks. When it was over, and Clint lay gasping for breath, the older man pulled off until just the head of Clint’s cock was in his mouth. Clint watched, wide-eyed and dazed, as he flicked his tongue across the slit of his dick, lapping up the remains of his release.

He whimpered softly, jerking from overstimulation, and Phil grinned at him, sharp and wolfish.

“Holy shit.” Clint shuddered out.

The older man crawled up to lay beside him, fingers trailing across Clint’s chest. It took a while for Clint to come back to himself, and when he did, it was to the feeling of Coulson’s hard-on pressing against his thigh. He slanted open his eyes, glancing down at the older man’s erection. It was longer than Clint’s, slightly curved at the end, and at the moment, it was deep-red with arousal.

Clint reached down, fully intending on reciprocating, when Coulson caught his wrist.

“It’s alright.” He murmured, “You don’t have to.”

Clint rolled his eyes, batting the older man’s hand away.

“I’m a lot of things, _Phil_ , but a selfish lover isn’t one of them.” Clint replied dryly.

Coulson’s eyes were dark with arousal, and he didn’t protest as Clint wrapped his fingers around his dick. He stroked him slowly, getting a feeling for it. He had never touched another man before, but it wasn’t much different than jerking himself off. A cock was a cock, after all.

Clint leaned forward, pressing open-mouth kisses across the Sentinel’s chest. Coulson shifted against the mattress, a dark flush spreading across his face and down his neck. When Clint laved at a nipple with his tongue, pebbling the dark flesh, Coulson jerked beneath him. Clint grinned, enjoying the rush of power he felt at the older man’s reaction. He sucked the nipple into his mouth, rolling it gently between his teeth.

“ _Clint_. _”_ Phil moaned, and even though he had just gotten off, Clint’s dick twitched with interest.

He leaned back, pinning the older man with a look.

“Listen, I’ve never given head before.” He admitted, and he wasn’t sure whether he was feeling self-consciousness or rueful, “I’m probably going to suck at it.”

Phil’s lips twitched precariously. “I’m pretty sure that’s the idea.”

The words surprised a genuine laugh out of him. “Fair enough.”

The Sentinel’s expression softened perceptibly, and he ran his fingers across Clint’s face. “I’m happy to take whatever you’ll give me, Clint.”

The corner of Clint’s mouth curled up in a wry smile. “Well, it’s not going to be a world-class blowjob, I’ll tell you that much.” 

Phil laughed loudly—Clint loved the sound of it. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

Clint grinned at him, before ducking his head to press wet kisses across his chest. As he worked his way lower, he lazily stroked Phil with one hand, while teasing his nipples with the other. The older man enjoyed nipple play, if his weeping erection was any indication, and Clint pinched the pebbled nub, twisting it with enough force to hurt.

Phil moaned, long and low, and Clint grinned into his skin. _Good to know._

He pushed up onto his knees, crawling over the Sentinel’s leg and settling between his thighs. Phil watched him with dark, lidded eyes as Clint took his erection in one hand and stared at it considerately. He had seen dicks before—had seen _Phil’s_ dick before—but this was different. He was entirely cognizant of what he was doing, of what he was choosing to do. It was at once intimidating and liberating.

He stroked the older man’s erection from root to tip, trying to decide how to begin. He was aware of the weight of Phil’s regard as he bent forward, taking the head of his cock in his mouth. It was silky soft, and the precum that had beaded in his slit was salty and bitter, but Clint found that he didn’t mind the taste. He flicked his tongue across the slit experimentally, and was rewarded with a sharp inhale. He glanced up, meeting Phil’s gaze, and then suckled on the head of his cock. The older man’s eyes widened and then screwed shut, his face tormented.

Emboldened, Clint began to work the Sentinel’s cock, exploring it with his lips and tongue, getting a feeling for it. It was long and slender, with a pleasant heft to it. Clint was surprised to find that he liked the weight of it in his mouth. He took more of Phil’s length, before pulling back to swirl his tongue around the glans. The older man made a strangled sound, and Clint glanced up to find him staring down at him, slack-jawed with arousal. Clint flashed him a cheeky grin, earning himself a drawn-out groan, and then he sucked his cock down as far as he could.

Phil’s breathing was becoming erratic, his face and chest flushed bright red. Clint bobbed against him, enjoying the control he had over the other man, when he went too deeply. He gagged hard and pulled away, swallowing reflexively.

“Are you alright?” Phil asked, immediately present again.

Clint waved him off, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Mad props to anyone who’s ever sucked cock before, because it isn’t as easy as it looks.”

Phil’s expression turned wry. “You’re doing just fine.”

Clint’s face split with another grin. “Do I get points for enthusiasm?”

The older man laughed fondly. “Top marks.”

Clint chuckled lightly, and then bent himself to task. He quickly learned that he couldn’t take more than half of his length without gagging, so he fisted his hand against the base and lightly pumped in time with his bobbing. Above him, Phil was losing his composure, and Clint loved every minute of it. The older man was panting, eyes screwed shut and his hands rucking up the blankets. Clint hallowed his cheeks and, deciding that turn-about is fair play, hummed around the cock in his mouth.

Phil shouted in surprise, and Clint felt strangely vindicated.

“I’m getting close.” Phil gasped.

Clint steeled himself, determinedly, and continued working the older man’s cock.

“Clint.” The Sentinel groaned, “Jesus Christ, your fucking _mouth_.”

He had never heard Phil swear before, and the profanity went straight to Clint’s dick. Struck by sudden inspiration, he dipped a hand below his balls and pressed a knuckle into his perineum. The older man stammered a warning as his hips jerked upwards, and then semen flooded Clint’s mouth. He wasn’t prepared for the taste or the volume, and he grimaced deeply as he swallowed around Coulson’s cock.

The older man shuddered, riding out the tremors of his orgasm. Clint pulled off, lightly pumping him from root to tip. When Phil finally opened his eyes, he stared at Clint with a naked affection that made his heart skip a beat. Suddenly desperate to forestall whatever Coulson was about to say, Clint flashed him a roguish smile.

“Well, that was fun.” He said, sliding over to the edge of the bed, “What were you saying about breakfast?”

Coulson’s brow furrowed slightly, obviously taken aback by the sudden change of topic.

“I said we could go out if you wanted.” He slowly replied, “Clint, are you—“

“I’d like that.” Clint said, standing up and picking his boxers off the floor, “I need to shower first.”

He was aware of Coulson’s eyes on his back as he walked to the dresser, pulling open the top drawer and retrieving some clean clothes. He could hear the older man climb out of bed and pad across the room towards him. He shut the drawer and turned around, holding the bundle of clothing in front of him like a shield.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything.” He said, not meeting Coulson’s gaze.

The Sentinel’s face did something complicated. “It meant something to me.”

The admission hurt, and Clint’s eyes fell to the floor. “Please don’t.”

The older man reached out to touch him, causing Clint to flinch. He froze, hand suspended in mid-air, before he slowly lowered his arm again.

“It’s alright, Clint.” Coulson murmured, “I already told you: I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me.”

His voice was compassionate, rather than hurt or resentful, and somehow that made things worse. He swallowed audibly, before making his way into the bathroom and shutting the door—leaving Coulson and his conflicted feelings behind him.

* * *

Clint took his time in the bathroom. He showered, shaved, and brushed his teeth as he studiously ignored the conflicted feelings welling up inside him. By the time that he stepped into the kitchen, he felt reasonably in control of himself. Coulson leaned against the kitchen island, dressed for the day in a navy pullover and slacks. He was reading a folded newspaper held in one hand, and he glanced up as Clint approached.

“Are you ready to go?” He asked.

Clint was sure that his casualness was forced, but he was thankful for it all the same.

“Yeah, sure.” He replied.

Coulson nodded, setting the newspaper on the counter and crossing to the front hall closet. He pulled out two light jackets, handing one to Clint and shrugging the other one on himself. Clint followed suit, before bending down and pulling on his shoes. The faded sneakers were the only article of clothing that the Tower had allowed him to keep.

Coulson pulled open the front door, and Clint stepped into the hallway. Agents Cook and Cameron were standing nearby, backs straight and hands clasped in front of them. They nodded politely as Coulson shut and locked the front door.

“We’re heading into Georgetown.” He said, pushing his keys into his pocket, “We’ll take Lola. You can follow behind.” 

Agent Cook nodded sharply, and the two Sentinels fell into step behind them. Clint was aware of Agent Cameron’s scrutiny—he could practically feel the younger man’s eyes burning a hole in his back—but he ignored it as best he could. Either the Sentinel was still pissed off about their argument or he could smell the sex on them. Either way, Clint had nothing to say to him.

The elevator took them to sub-level two, and the gleaming silver doors opened to reveal an underground parking garage. The air was cool and smelled faintly of motor oil. Coulson led them down a long row of neatly parked cars, before stopping in front of a cherry-red Chevrolet Corvette. Clint’s eyebrows drifted closer to his hairline as he stared at the gleaming vehicle.

“This yours, I take it?” He asked mildly.

Coulson didn’t smile, not exactly, but his expression was warm.

“She is.” He replied, opening the door and climbing into the driver’s seat, “Get in.”

Clint walked around to the passenger side door, fingers trailing over the polished metal. The car was a perfectly restored American classic—he couldn’t even guess how much it must have cost. He opened the door, climbing gingerly into the passenger seat. As he buckled his seatbelt, Coulson turned the key in the ignition and the engine rumbled to life.

The sound of a second engine turning over caused Clint to glance behind them. Agents Cook and Cameron had climbed into a dark-colored SUV, and they were apparently waiting for Coulson to pull out. The Sentinel obliged them, accelerating down the parking garage and up the curved cement ramp. A moment later, Clint could see clear blue sky as the exit came into sight.

He swallowed hard, trying to control himself as they drove out of the parking garage. It was a crisp spring morning, and although the air was cool, the sunshine was warm against his skin. He closed his eyes, tipping his head back and letting the air buffet his face. He had never felt anything so wonderful in all of his life. 

When he finally opened his eyes again, they were accelerating down the long bridge that connected the Tower to the mainland. Coulson slowed at the checkpoint, letting the two Sentinels scan his identification badge, and then the boom arm was being raised and they were driving again. Coulson turned onto the highway, heading north. Washington was in its full glory—cherry trees and manicured gardens flashed by on their right, while the Potomoc River followed them on the left. The sidewalks were full of tourists and businessmen, and through the dense foliage, Clint could see the Washington Monument rising in the distance.

All at once, he felt very overwhelmed.

He curled his hands against the edge of the seat, his knuckles pale against the dark leather. He took a deep breath, and then another, trying to keep his shit together.

This is fine, he told himself. This is what he wanted.

Coulson glanced sidelong at him. “What are you thinking, Clint?”

Clint tightened his grip against the edge of the seat.

“I’ve never been to Washington before.” He replied stiffly, “It’s nice.”

The older man seemed to see through his bullshit, for his brow creased with concern.

“Are you alright? Do you want to go back?” He asked.

Clint shook his head sharply. If he was certain about one thing, it was that he never wanted to go back to the Tower.

“No.” He said, forcing himself to loosen his grip on the seat, “I’d like to see this café you’ve been raving about. Maybe afterwards we could visit the National Mall?” 

Coulson glanced at him again, a quick flick of his eyes before he looked back at the road.

“We could do the tour.” He offered, navigating the exit into Georgetown, “The Washington Monument, the National Mall, the Lincoln Memorial. If you like museums, there’s the Smithsonian and the Air and Space Museum.”

Clint felt himself relax. “Yeah? How about this morning?” 

Coulson’s mouth quirked up in a smile. “If you’d like.”

“Yeah.” He replied, leaning settling back against the seat, “I would.”

The Sentinel nodded, flicking his turn signal and turning left onto a city street. Clint watched in the rearview mirror as the dark-colored SUV followed closely behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:** I imagine that the Tower was built on Theodore Roosevelt island in the middle of the Potomac River. Coulson's apartment faces east, into Washington, and his office faces west, into Arlington.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** I am so sorry for the delay in getting this chapter posted. It's been a rough time at work, though I suppose that's true for many of us, isn't it? Please let me know if you're still reading!

The café was a small and quaint. It was located near the river, with a clear view of Theodore Roosevelt Island. The interior was decorated in a clean, minimalist motif—small, circular tables arranged around the dining area, which was lit by hanging lights made from antique soda bottles. There were only a handful of empty tables, which wasn’t surprising given the hour, and the air was filled with quiet talking and the sound of cutlery on dishware. Coulson held the door for him as he entered, and Clint made his way towards the hostess who was standing behind a desk in the foyer.

The young woman looked up as he approached, her face warming in a smile. “Good morning, gentleman. Table for four?”

“No.” Clint replied, before Coulson could get a word in edge-wise, “Two tables for two, please.”

The Sentinel gave him a look that was equal parts exasperation and amusement, but he didn’t contradict him.

“Very good, sir.” The hostess replied, picking up four menus from the pile on the desk, “Please follow me.”

The young woman made her way through the dining area, stepping around tables and patrons with practised ease. Clint followed behind her, glancing around the room with sharp eyes. The customers seemed to be an even mix between tourists, wearing wide brimmed hats and talking excitedly over brochures, and businessmen, who were enjoying their coffees and morning newspapers. The hostess directed Clint towards a table located near the wall, before handing them two menus. Clint took one, handing the other to Coulson, before he took a seat. The older man accepted the menu as he sat down across from him.

The hostess extended her hand towards a table located a short distance away for Cook and Cameron. The two Sentinels pulled out their chairs and sat down, both angling their bodies so that Clint was within their line of sight.

Clint set his jaw in irritation, and he flipped open the menu in order to distract himself from their scrutiny. The options were exactly what he expected, an assortment of hearty breakfast foods and lighter lunch fare. His eyes roved down the list of categories, before flicking up to Coulson. The older man was watching him with a small smile curling the corners of his mouth. His menu sat on the table in front of him, unopened.

“What’s good here?” Clint asked.

“They’re known for their sandwiches and wraps, but it’s all good.” Coulson answered, before adding, “I remember how much you enjoy a hot breakfast.”

The older man’s tone was hesitant, almost tentative, and it took Clint a second to understand his meaning. When it came, it came hard and fast. _The breakfast in the bonding suite._

Clint’s irritation returned, tightening his jaw.

“Nothing that happened in that room is reflective of my preferences.” He bit out.

Coulson had the good grace to look abashed, but before he could apologize, their waiter stepped up to the table. He young and slim, with an apron tied around his waist and hair that fell into his eyes. Clint would have put good money on a bet that he was an undergraduate at Georgetown.

“Welcome to the Bistro, gentlemen. My name is David and I’ll be your server this morning. Can I start you off with anything to drink?” He asked.

“Do you have any alcohol, David?” Clint asked dryly.

The server looked taken aback. “No, we don’t. We have a selection of coffees, teas, and sodas, and our smoothies are pretty good too.”

“Too bad.” Clint replied, “I’ll have a coffee then. Black, two sugars.”

The server nodded, before turning to look at Coulson. The older man smiled at him. “I’ll have a chai tea, please. One milk, no sugar.”

The server nodded and made his way towards the two Sentinels sitting at the nearby table. Clint heard him repeat his introduction, but he couldn’t hear what the two men ordered in reply. He glanced down at the menu, eyes roving down the list of options, before he flipped it shut and leaned back in his chair.

“What did you decide on?” Coulson asked mildly.

“The Congressional.” Clint replied, turning to stare out the windows. The café was located on a quiet street near the university. Pedestrians made their way down the sidewalks, either hurrying to work or ambling along as they stared at the stone facades of the buildings lining the road. Clint wasn’t an architect by any stretch of the imagination, but even he could appreciate the blend of old and new construction.

“Georgetown is one of the oldest parts of the city.” Coulson said, as though reading his mind, “They have endeavoured to protect the distinctive design of the neighbourhood.”

Clint didn’t reply, and Coulson didn’t press him. He continued staring out the window, watching people as they passed by. The university students, the businessmen, the mothers pushing strollers, the groups of school children—all going about their daily lives without a clue. It made Clint feel melancholy and resentful, all at once.

He barely noticed when David returned with their drinks. Clint leaned back, allowing the server to place his coffee on the table in front of him. He did the same with Coulson’s tea, before turning a saccharine smile on both of them.

“What can I get you?” He asked.

Coulson looked at him expectantly, and Clint internalized a sigh.

“I’ll have the Congressional, please. Scrambled eggs, white toast, bacon instead of sausage.” He said, picking up the menu and holding it out for him.

David accepted it with a nod, before turning to look at Coulson.

“I’ll have the Lincoln, please.” He said, handing over his menu as well.

David was gone a moment later, sidling past a mother and daughter on their way to the washroom. The little girl had chocolate all over her face, and when they passed their table, the mother gave them an apologetic smile. Coulson’s smile in return was warm and genuine.

Clint picked up his coffee, blowing across the steaming liquid before taking a sip. It was good, but no surprise there. The price point of this place was ridiculous.

“Cute kid.” Coulson said, picking up his teacup.

Clint made a noncommittal noise, before turning to stare out the window again. There were flower baskets hanging from every lamppost on the street, and the petunias and geraniums were in full bloom. Washington was beautiful in the spring.

“Did you ever see yourself having children?” Coulson asked, pulling him back to himself.

Clint scoffed into his coffee cup as he took another drink, earning a surprised look in return.

“You… don’t see yourself having children?” Coulson asked, the question mark clearly audible at the end of his sentence.

Clint felt a stab of irritation that made his pulse quicken. His voice was only just polite when he replied, “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

The Sentinel’s eyebrows knit together, as though in confusion, as he set his teacup on the saucer. “It wasn’t a conversation. It was just a question motivated by idle curiosity.”

Clint narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, hissing, “No, it wasn’t. Nothing is ever _just a question_ with you.”

Coulson’s mouth turned down at the corners, and he shook his head faintly in response.

“I’m sorry I asked.” He replied.

Clint wasn’t sure whether he was sorry for broaching the topic, or whether he was sorry for provoking Clint’s temper. Perhaps both. It didn’t matter either way. He leaned forward further still, looking the older man straight in the eye.

“Listen to me carefully, Coulson.” He said, voice low and tight, “I’m never having children. Not biological, adopted, or otherwise. Do you understand?”

The older man stilled, emotion flitting across his face too quickly for Clint to decipher, before nodding his head.

“Alright, Clint.” He murmured, wrapping both hands around his teacup. “I understand.”

Clint reached out, grasping the Sentinel by the wrist and giving him a meaningful squeeze. “No, Coulson. I need you to really, _really_ listen to me. You and I are never having children. Full stop. Don’t hope that I’ll have a change of heart in five years, because I won’t. I suggest you come to terms with it.”

The Sentinel’s face became closed off, his lips pressing into a thin line, before he gave a terse nod. “I understand.”

Clint didn’t let go of his wrist.

“Good.” He replied, his voice pitched low in an effort to keep their conversation private, “Because if my child ever presented as a Sentinel or a Guide, I would kill anyone who tried to take them away from me.” He squeezed the older man’s wrist with enough force to bruise, “Anyone.”

“Agent Coulson? Is everything alright?”

Clint glanced up to see that both Sentinel Cook and Sentinel Cameron had turned in their seats to regard them. The older man’s brow was furrowed with concern, but Cameron was staring straight at him. The younger man’s expression was tightly leashed and difficult to read, but his hand was clenching and unclenching where it rested against his thigh.

“Yes, thank-you Sentinel.” Coulson replied, at the same time Clint snapped, “Mind your own business.”

The older Sentinel glanced from Clint to Coulson, evidentially looking for direction, but Cameron’s eyes never left Clint’s face.

Coulson’s hand came down on his own, giving him a gentle squeeze. “Clint. Please.”

Clint tore his eyes away from Cameron, to glance back at his Sentinel. “Please what? Don’t cause a scene?”

Coulson’s mouth turned up in a wan smile. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

There was something about his tone—dry and self-deprecating, with a touch of humor—that cooled the fire in Clint’s belly. He snorted, letting go of Coulson’s wrist as he sat back in his seat.

“Well, heaven forbid I get you banned from the premises.” He replied, picking up his coffee mug and taking another sip. It had cooled during their argument, and he took a longer draw of the semi-sweet brew.

“That would be a shame.” Coulson conceded, his smile twitching wider, “You would miss their hash browns.”

As if summoned by his words, their server emerged from the kitchens and started towards them. He held a large tray in both hands, which was adorned with all manner of dishware. Clint set his coffee mug aside, making room for the large plate heaped with a full American breakfast that the server placed in front of him. He placed another plate of pancakes on the table, followed by a saucer with a pat of butter and a carafe of maple syrup. The server turned to Coulson next, setting a plate with a tidy breakfast wrap and a bowl of fresh-cut fruit in front of him.

“Do you require anything else?” He asked, tucking the tray beneath one arm.

Clint glanced over the meal, shaking his head. “No, thanks.”

The server nodded, before making his way back towards the kitchens. Clint watched him go until he disappeared behind the swinging doors, and then he started in on his breakfast. Coulson shook out his napkin, spreading it across his lap, and then he picked up his cutlery. He proceeded to cut his wrap into tidy pieces.

Clint picked up a slice of bacon with his fingers and took a bite. The taste of grease and salt flooded his mouth, and he made an approving sound in the back of his throat.

“Good, I take it?” Coulson asked, face warming in amusement.

“It’s not bad.” Clint conceded around another mouthful of bacon.

Coulson’s lips twitched up as he speared a piece of melon with his fork. “I first came here the morning after I graduated. I’ve been coming back ever since.”

Clint couldn’t think of anything polite to say in response, and so he said nothing at all. The silence that fell between them was companionable, rather than strained, as it might have been, and they ate the remainder of their breakfast. The server returned briefly to refill their mugs, and then he was off again. Clint brought the now-steaming cup to his lips, blowing across the dark surface. The coffee was rich and fragrant—he would need to find out what blend they used.

It wasn’t long before his plate was empty and he was feeling comfortably full. He wiped his fingers on his napkin, before glancing across the table. Coulson had finished before him, and the older man sat back in his seat, drinking his tea.

“Where are we heading now?” Clint asked.

Coulson smiled at him warmly. “I thought you could decide. What are you in the mood to see?”

Clint tilted his head, considering the question. He had read about Washington, of course, and he had seen plenty on television—enough to have an opinion, anyway.

“What about the Lincoln Memorial?” He asked, “Or the Washington Monument?”

“Of course.” Coulson replied, finishing his tea and setting his cup on the saucer, “They’re within walking distance, if you’re up to a hike.”

“Alright.” Clint agreed, tossing his napkin onto the table, “I could use the exercise after that breakfast. Where’s the bathroom?”

Something flitted across Coulson’s face—it was there, and then it was gone again. The older man stood, pushing back his chair. “Come on, I’ll show you. I need to use the bathroom myself.”

The Sentinel led the way, weaving around tables as he strode towards the hallway at the back of the café. Clint trailed behind him, hands at his sides as he walked. He caught himself checking his corners and assessing each person that he passed. His lips twisted in a grimace as he realized what he was doing. It wasn’t as though he had Big Brother to look out for anymore—they’d already found him.

Coulson stopped in front of a door with an anchor painted on it, underneath which the word “Buoys” was written in scrawling cursive. The older man pushed open the door for him, allowing Clint to step into the washroom. The space within contained four urinals and four stalls, arranged on opposite walls, and a row of sinks along the third. Clint made his way over to the urinals, quickly relieving himself as he tried not to think about Coulson’s proximity. He flushed when he was done, before crossing over to the sinks to wash his hands.

“I’ll wait for you outside.” He said, tossing the words over his shoulder. He didn’t wait for Coulson’s response before he opened the bathroom door—and pulled up short.

Sentinels Cook and Cameron were standing in the hall, directly outside the door. The two men straightened up as soon as they laid eyes on him. Clint’s breath caught in his throat as he suddenly felt trapped—a dead-end at his back and two men blocking his way forward.

“Move.” He said, lowly.

Cook held out a restraining hand, as he called over Clint’s shoulder. “Agent Coulson?”

Clint’s heart started beating faster in his chest, and he spread his feet shoulder-width apart. “Get out of my way.”

The Sentinel evidentially recognized his words for the threat they were, for he stepped back out of striking distance, his hand still held up in front of him. The moment seemed to draw out, suspended in time like an insect in amber, before Coulson stepped into the doorway behind him.

“It’s alright, Sentinel Cook.” He said briskly, “We’re leaving.”

The Sentinel nodded once, before moving aside to allow them to pass. The easy acquiescence to Coulson’s command needled Clint, and he narrowed his eyes in anger.

“It’s not alright.” He bit out, flushing hotly, “Last I checked, I’m a bonded Guide, not a goddamn criminal.”

Coulson’s hand settled high on his back, between his shoulder blades. Perhaps the gesture was meant to reassure, but instead it only needled him further. Clint shook him off, before storming down the hallway. The three Sentinels followed silently behind him. The dining area was busier than it had been when they arrived, and Clint had to squeeze between two chairs in order to get back to his table. The server was already there, loading their empty plates onto his tray. As soon as he saw Clint, he turned, extending the checkbook towards him.

“Here you are, sir. You can pay at the counter.”

Clint stared down at the black bifold in sudden, helpless anger. The server seemed to pick-up on his swing of emotion, for he took a step back, looking uncertain.

“Was everything alright with your meal?” He asked.

Clint gripped the bifold until his knuckles turned white. It was Coulson, who had come up behind him, that answered the question.

“Everything was wonderful, as always. Thank-you.” He said politely.

The Sentinel grasped his shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze. Clint stared at the bifold for a moment longer, before forcing his face into a poor facsimile of a smile.

“Yes, it was very good.” Clint agreed, extending the bifold towards Coulson, “Unfortunately, as my bank account’s been closed and my assets seized, I don’t have any money to pay you. Them’s the breaks, though, huh?”

The server stared at him blankly. “I don’t understand.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” Clint replied, his smile losing none of its angles. “Pay the man, Coulson. I’ll wait outside—with an escort, I’m sure.”

He pushed away from the Sentinel, before walking towards the exit. He heard footsteps behind him, but he didn’t bother turning around to see who was following him. He shouldered through a group of girls loitering in the entryway, earning himself a few dirty looks, before he stepped outside. The air was pleasantly warm with a refreshing breeze coming off the water, but he wasn’t in any mood to enjoy it.

“Was that really necessary?” Sentinel Cameron asked, stepping onto the sidewalk and letting the door swing shut behind him.

“Don’t.” Clint warned, pacing back and forth in front of the café.

“The Tower has a reputation to maintain.” Cameron continued, watching him closely. The disapproval in his voice was plain to hear.

Clint stopped in his tracks, turning to fix the other man with an incredulous look. “Do you think I give _two shits_ about the Tower’s reputation? It can burn to the ground for all that I care.”

Cameron flushed at his words, but he didn’t rise to the bait this time, much to Clint’s disappointment.

“You should care.” He replied instead, “The DSGA does a lot of good for the country. This divisive rhetoric doesn’t help anyone—yourself included.”

The door opened again as Sentinel Cook stepped out of the café. The older man looked from Clint to Cameron, quickly sizing up the situation.

“Guide Barton, are you alright?” He asked quietly, standing aside so that an older man carrying a briefcase could enter the café.

The question took Clint aback—he wasn’t used to any level of consideration from Tower agents. He hid his surprise behind a veneer of distain as he crossed his arms over his chest. He knew that it made him look defensive, but he didn’t care.

The door opened a third time as Coulson stepped outside. The Sentinel’s eyes found Clint in an instant, and something about his posture relaxed as soon as he saw him. The older man crossed the sidewalk to stand nearby, but he made no move to touch him.

“Do you still want the tour?” He asked softly, “Or do you want to go home?”

The question physically hurt, as though someone had cracked open his sternum and laid his heart bare. He swallowed, forcing down the lump that had lodged itself in his throat, as Coulson’s expression furrowed with concern.

“I want to walk.” Clint replied roughly, turning to look down the street, “Which way?”

“The National Mall is southeast.” Coulson said, after a moment, “We can go by way of—“

Clint glanced up, noting the position of the sun and the angle of the shadows cast by the buildings, before he started down the sidewalk. Coulson fell into step beside him a moment later. He was aware of the furtive glances the older man was directing his way, but Clint tried his best to ignore them.

The two Sentinels followed behind them in silence.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Symbiosis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26067916) by [Sigma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sigma/pseuds/Sigma)




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